Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Greg loathed Christmas parties; he also, complicatedly, hated that he hated Christmas parties. How cliche was it to dislike holiday events? But hate them he did. He was always too warm. Always wearing a jumper that was completely seasonally appropriate, and was therefore entirely unnecessary while in the boss’s niece’s best friend’s underground art gallery that he ‘hired’ for the party — which is to say, got through illicit acts such as sleeping with someone, possibly the niece’s best friend, though they wouldn’t talk about that until the fifth cocktail. 

This hatred meant that he had been grumpily arguing with his belongings, despite their inanimate natures. It had taken him seventeen minutes to choose between the smart trousers and the jeans. And he’d moved on to the jumpers but had gotten exactly nowhere in choosing which one would end up assaulting him all night. There were five. He had no idea how he’d ended up with five seasonally appropriate Christmas jumpers. The answer probably rested somewhere between ‘they all came from his sister’ and ‘the charity shop by work had really good deals on paperbacks’. He hated each of these jumpers for an entirely different reason and so he was still standing there ten minutes later, shirtless and growing increasingly closer to being late. 

“If you’re late enough, you won’t even have to go in,” he said to the empty flat, nonetheless picking up the lightest of the jumpers — red, fake-knit, antlers — and tossing it over his head. 

He decided he probably shouldn’t drive; he’d been planning on it, because then he wouldn’t be forced to drink the overpriced drinks they’d have on offer. But if he did that then he wouldn’t be able to drink. It was a Catch-22 and he wasn’t as invested in solving it as he was hailing a cab on the side street by his house. He didn’t have time for the tube. He didn’t really have time for the cab, but that was the jumper’s fault. 

He was in an absolutely foul mood by the time he had dumped his coat with the relatively cute coat check girl and found the bustling room full of his coworkers. They were already jamming fully to off-key carols emanating from the man being called a ‘DJ’ for the night; this meant that about half the department was in the middle of the floor, slightly moving their shoulders back and forth while death-gripping cocktail glasses and trying to pretend that they didn’t fancy each other the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. 

Greg sighed and pasted on a smile as he went to hunt down Molly and her current boyfriend. 

He didn’t really know why he was in such a weird headspace. He was normally a pretty social guy. He tended to enjoy most parties, but something about shoehorning gatherings into vague, holiday-yuletide-shh-we-didn’t-say-Christmas parties nudged him into the glum category every year. Particularly when, like this year, they started before it was even December.

Molly was wearing a green sequined dress that was probably meant to be festive but was slightly too swamp coloured and was therefore giving more of a monster-mash vibe. Her Boyfriend™ — Tim, Greg thought this one was called — had felt antlers on his head and a vague, vapid grin on his face. 

“DI!” she shouted when she saw him. Clearly, already a cocktail or two in, then. “Thought you were going to properly skip it. You hate these things!” 

“Hiya, Molly,” he said, nodding to the boyfriend and neatly avoiding using his name at all. “I would never give Anderson the satisfaction.” 

Molly laughed and looped her arm through his, dragging him to a high-top table. John approached from his left and offered him a cocktail glass. 

“‘Lo, Lestrade,” he said. “Rye and coke. Saw you come in while I was in line.” 

“John,” Greg replied warmly. “How’d you get roped into this.” 

“Sherlock made me. Something about ‘pretence is the father of trust’, whatever the fuck,” John laughed. “Of course, I have no idea where he’s gone now that we’re here, but there you are.” 

Greg took the glass, drank deeply and grinned at them all. “Well, I am going to make the rounds. The faster I am seen by everyone, the sooner I can tastefully disappear without anyone talking about it on Monday. Ta, John. You’re a gent.” 

He clapped John on the shoulder as he waltzed away; he made it around the room, finding all the important superior officials, his own team of officers, the wives of at least half of the group he’d hired in the spring, and — most importantly — Anderson. He made jokes and gave general yuletide greetings. He was gracious and jovial, took a canape or two as they passed him by, swung by the bar for a glass of wine so his hands weren’t empty and, in total, did an excellent job not being a pisspot at the Christmas party. 

When he finally made it back to the table where Molly and the boyfriend were still swaying convincingly close to in-time with the music, Sherlock had reappeared and Greg had a headache.

“Is there anywhere we’re allowed to smoke?” Greg asked as he approached. “And no, I don’t want to hear it, Dr. Watson. It’s on the New Year resolution list. I’m ashamed enough. I’m down to three a day, not that it helps.” 

“I think the building is just regular rules,” John said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Outside and etcetera.” 

“Right. Well, I shall return from my ritual shame.”

Greg chuckled at his own joke while simultaneously taking himself out into the chilly night air. He turned the corner so that he wasn’t near the door. He’d meant what he’d said to John. He’d been trying to give up the habit since the laws had gone into effect almost four years ago. He’d been doing well, and had reduced the number of cigarettes he decided he ‘needed’ significantly from the height of his addiction in the early nineties. But, nicotine still lingered in his lungs and had him craving the jolt of adrenaline he felt it caused, still wanted the momentary breath of heat and smoke that curled into him and released itself through his nostrils. Anytime he spent too much time around someone else who still smoked, he’d find his own consumption creep up. It was a dirty, contemptible ritual and he really did intend to stop. 

This week, even. 

Or next, at the latest. 

He took a few long strides down the walk, noticing a bus shelter on the empty road and pulling the very abused pack from his pocket. He’d just managed to light while still walking when he nearly died of the shock of bumping into a man lurking in the semi-darkness of the street light 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he declared as he almost dropped the cigarette that was dangling from his mouth. “Sorry, mate. I…uh, I didn’t see you. Scared me.” 

“Apologies, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” the man said, making Greg’s gaze snap up to meet the face of his imposed companion.

“Oh, er. Um. Hi there, Mr. Holmes. Didn’t recognise you.”

“Unsurprising, since I am not strictly meant to be here,” the elder Holmes brother drawled. “I shall leave you to your cigarette…unless. Well… I shouldn’t ask. But. My assistant can’t abide smoking and I find…” 

This rather peculiar, familiar, and stilted speech was all given in a low rumble that felt oddly conspiratorial in the fog-filled darkness of the December night. It wasn’t that cold out; Greg hadn’t even stopped to get his coat, preferring to get a break from overheating and relying on the horrible jumper for warmth. They probably weren’t even in single digits. Still, Holmes seemed to be wearing a full overcoat, a scarf, and black gloves. 

“Um, yeah, no problem. Here,” Greg said, retrieving his pack and offering it to Holmes. “Got a light, too. Man, been a minute since someone bummed a smoke off me.” 

Holmes pulled off his left glove delicately, finger by finger, before taking a cigarette from the proffered pack with a thumb and a forefinger; Greg offered the lighter awkwardly. Gone, he thought, were the days of lighting someone’s smoke for them.

“I will quit in the New Year,” Greg said stupidly, inhaling in tandem with Holmes. 

“I say that every year,” he replied with a gentle, shy grin. “Until the first large and stressful thing occurs and I am once again on some rooftop or trying to hide the smell from my staff.” 

“I understand you completely,” Greg said with a laugh. “Um, didn’t see you inside…?” 

He said this with more of a question than he’d intended; he’d met Sherlock’s big brother several times before, but always in the context of very serious government situations and cases requiring more oversight than the London Met. Their conversations had always remained quite business-like. He was having difficulty quantifying why Mycroft Holmes would be at his office’s Christmas do. 

“I am not here for the festivities,” Holmes said. “Sherlock is on a…bender.”

“What? He’s in there. Seemed fine to me.”

“Mm,” he murmured around an inhale. “The most insidious type. The one in which he seems very much in control. I…prefer to be on hand, in these moments.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Greg said sympathetically. 

The man’s face snapped to him mid-drag and he found himself being uncomfortably studied.

“Er, sorry, I just meant…siblings. They’re…challenging. Worth it, but still.”

“Indeed,” Holmes allowed. “Good evening, Mr Lestrade. I hope you have a pleasant rest of your evening.”

“Greg,” he replied on instinct, extending his hand. “Please.”

Holmes looked down at his palm for a split-second longer than he could hide before he shook it with his still-gloved right hand. “Mycroft,” he responded carefully. “Thank you. For the cigarette.” 

He turned then and walked into the darkness of the road. Greg, clearing his throat, considered what on earth had just happened to him. For a further five minutes, he finished his cigarette, contemplated just leaving from the street, and finally decided he had to say goodbye. He cleared his throat, and looked off into the vague middle distance where Mycroft Holmes had disappeared. 

“Huh,” he said to himself. “Well. That was weird.” 

Several hours later, with Sherlock safely back in the range of his easily controlled CCTV circuit, Mycroft fell into a fitful sleep. He awoke with a start at a dream of a warm, dry hand offering him assistance out of a well. 

“Well,” he sighed into the darkness of his too-cold bedroom. “That is terribly inconvenient.” 

Chapter Text

As a rule, Mycroft didn’t get disconcerted. He was difficult to fluster, faze, ruffle, disorient, or any other thesauri terms for being generally confused. He woke on the morning of December 2nd in utterly perturbed. 

He did not dream. Or at least, he was usually so tired by the time he went to bed that he didn’t remember his dreams upon waking. But last night, he’d had three separate and equally confusing dreams about gentle eyes, large hands, and cigarettes attached to bright red reindeer sweaters.  

He’d met DI Lestrade before, he was pretty sure. Not completely confident, but he’d been present for enough of Sherlock’s harebrained cases and insane plots against the country that he’d spent a similar amount of time with the contacts at the London Metropolitan. Still, there was no memory he could retrieve of those eyes. The only logical conclusion was that Sherlock had distracted him enough in those moments that he had missed their gentle prodding, the subtle way they begged for your life story and offered comfort. 

Sometimes, he really hated his baby brother. 

Had Sherlock not spent the last month in and out of drug-induced sprees, he would not have had to go to the collected “Yuletide Festival” of the police force to keep an eye on the decisions Sherlock made. Had he not been at that stupid party last night, refusing to go inside and be surrounded by cheer, he would not have run into the DI. Had he not run into Lestrade, he would not have smoked a cigarette with him in the fuzzy space of early winter evening. He would not have had the experience of struggling to carry on a conversation that immediately cut to the heart of Mycroft’s most complicated emotions. He would have had a restful night’s sleep and he would not be staring off into the middle distance, completely missing what Anthea was trying to tell him for the second time. 

“Sir?” she repeated. 

He snapped back to attention, realised his pen was tapping on his desk again, and cleared his throat. 

“Yes to the ambassador, no to the tea. Sorry, Anthea. I had a bit of a late night and am slightly more tired than normal. Can you see if Mark can bring the Eclipse files down? And lunch from the cafe.” 

She nodded, though her brow had furrowed with worry and turned to go. 

“And Anthea?” he added. But then he paused. He had come terribly close just now to asking for details he should not — could not — want. “Never mind.” 

She tilted her head, but resumed her retreat and Mycroft went back to tapping his pen and not accomplishing much of anything at all. 

Chapter Text

The days of the week didn’t hold much dominion over a police officer and were of even less importance to a Detective Inspector, even if they were technically no longer on shifts. Still, Greg wasn’t a huge fan of Mondays and only half of those reasons were because of work.

For one, Monday always seemed to be the day his sister decided to text him a flurry of messages demanding his attention for the week. Mondays were the day the alimony disappeared from his account every two weeks. Mondays, the office got loud and full of jovial energy as the part-timers and the support staff returned from their regular weekends. 

This particular Monday was extra brash, as there was much collective embarrassment all around him. Even his own small section of the office seemed weirdly subdued and afraid to speak to each other. He was glad he'd only be here for half an hour before leaving on his first case. He'd only been there five minutes and already desperately needed to get out of the tension. 

“Lydia,” he asked the second she arrived late at nearly half ten, handing him a coffee as an immediately accepted peace offering. “What the hell is going on around here?” 

His assistant smiled at him sheepishly. “You know how I tell you every year not to leave the Christmas party early?”

He smirked at her. “What happened?”

“Nothing all that bad. Only… Anderson decided at about midnight to do karaoke. Anyone who didn't get up with him to do a full duet was threatened with a late duty shift. So…everyone has now seen everyone else sing either Mariah Carey or Take 5. And Anderson, if the rumours are to be believed, does not remember any of it.”

Greg laughed heartily. “Well, I am just a little bit disappointed I missed that, gotta say. Did you record any of it?” 

“Not on your life, Lestrade,” she said. “You don't get to mock us from the other side. You're lucky I even brought you coffee.”

He raised his cup to her and wisely shut his mouth. He took a sip and almost spat it back out. 

“What is this, Lyd?” he asked carefully. 

“Peppermint mocha. What, you don't like it? Not surprising since you hate Christmas.” 

“I do not hate — I don't love the Christmas party, but I do not hate Christmas, Lydia.”

He took a determined sip, forcing himself not to grimace with the extreme sweetness and smiled at her. 

“You look like you're about to be sick,” she said, mocking him and putting a second cup on his desk. “Lucky for you, I knew that was going to happen and I brought you you're disgusting black Americano with zero Christmas joy.” 

“Love you, Lydia,” he called to her retreating form. 

“If only that were true. You could take me away from all this, run away into the sunset.” 

“On what,” he teased. “My salary? What a wild dream.” 

“You have like seven messages in your pigeonhole before you head out,” she called back. “Did you seriously not check? How on earth would you survive without me?” 

Greg laughed and stood, stretching. He wouldn’t survive without Lydia. Without all the people he relied on. He did try and tell them often since it was easier to have them know that he did appreciate them. They knew it, so he ignored Lydia’s cajoling. 

He emptied his mailbox and avoided seven full stop-and-chat conversations by pretending to read them on the way back to his desk. There were three notices about cases being passed to the higher courts, which were pointless since he also got emails. They reminded him why he normally didn’t bother emptying the box to begin with. The next two were copies of reports he’d already filed, and there was an invitation to the weekend’s party that he’d never seen before. He was about to toss the lot of the notices in the shredder when he saved the last one from getting stuck to the invitation. A small, A4 piece of unnecessarily fancy cardstock. It contained only a phone number and a short message; 

Please call if you need anything. 

- MH

Greg stared at the card in his hands for far longer than seemed appropriate for a single piece of paper. The inked message was as plain as anything. And yet… something about it had made his stomach do an odd little twist. He wasn’t sure why. It was straightforward, almost cold in its detachment—it should have been entirely forgettable.  

But it wasn’t.  

Why on earth would Mycroft have sent a message to his work?  After a five minute conversation on that street corner and only a handful of moments before that. Until the cigarette two nights ago, he was pretty sure that Mycroft had not remembered him from interaction to interaction, would have assumed Mycroft didn't know his name. That had been disproven, of course, with his first, last, and title being pulled out without difficulty in the cold night air; that fact had lingered in the back of his mind since and made him shiver now.

This note was proof of the most disconcerting part of that night. That odd sense of connection he’d felt in that brief encounter may, in fact, be mutual. Maybe he hadn't been inventing the way Mycroft’s cool detachment had softened, just slightly. But still, Greg wasn't quite sure he understood why, and this bloody card certainly didn't help. 

He felt a flicker of frustration rise in him. What was he supposed to do with this number?  

Lydia’s voice broke him from his reverie. “Lestrade!” she called across the office, her tone bright. “You’ve been standing there for five minutes holding that damn card.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, shoving the card into his pocket as if it had burned him. “It’s just… nothing. Never mind.”  

“If you say so,” Lydia teased, clicking a pen as she looked at him with an amused smile. “I still feel the need to remind you that you have a case. Robbery? Soho? Lee is waiting for you by the car.” 

Greg blinked and suddenly snapped back into the present. Right. The robbery case. Lee waiting for him. He’d almost forgotten in the haze of Mycroft Holmes. 

“Right,” he muttered, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. “Thanks, Lydia.”

But as he left his office and headed down the stairs, his mind kept drifting back to the card. The phone number. He wasn’t sure why he cared so much. Maybe it was the lack of context, the suddenness of it. It was pretty normal DI behaviour for him really; he didn’t like problems that could be worried at in his mind, niggled with the tip of his tongue, stuck in the back of his teeth. 

Did he need anything? Of course not. He wasn’t about to get tangled up in whatever strange game Mycroft Holmes might be playing. He’d made it through his whole life without needing anything from the eldest Holmes brother and Sherlock had managed to make a mess of things enough times to teach Greg that nothing was straightforward when it came to them. He didn’t know Mycroft. A few exchanged words, a shared cigarette in the cold, a head nod at 221b. That did not constitute an acquaintance, let alone someone to ask for help. Or so Greg had thought. But why did that non-descript card feel so… personal?  

When he reached the car, Lee was standing by the passenger door, holding a clipboard and looking like he was ready to start listing off every detail; he sighed internally. He wasn’t sure his morning was ready to handle this particular officer.

“Morning, DI,” Lee said with a nod, stepping aside as Greg slid into the car. 

“Morning,” Greg replied, settling in and letting the door slam shut behind him. “What’ve we got?”

“It was a break-in at a jewellery shop in Soho,” Lee said, pulling out a folder and passing it over. “Security footage shows a man in his late thirties, wearing a dark coat, and a woman we can't see. Only got away with a few high-end pieces.”

“Do we have any leads?” Greg asked.

“Not yet,” Lee replied. “But we’re still combing through the shop’s records. The robbery was clean. No signs of forced entry, no alarms tripped. It’s like they knew exactly what they were doing.”

Greg nodded, his thoughts still scattered between the case and the note in his pocket. “Right, let’s get down there and see what we’re working with.”

The case did not really help distract Greg. It was likely an inside job, based on what they found. He processed the scene, spent the next hour on the street, cataloguing available CCTV and canvassing, but even with a stop for a takeaway lunch, he was back at the office by one. 

The rest of the day passed in a blur of endless reports, tedious watching of footage, and the hum of office chatter that Greg found incredibly grating. He kept himself distracted, working his way through the pile of paperwork Lydia had thrust at him with an enthusiastic flourish upon his return. 

He glanced at his watch every ten minutes, tapping his pen against the fancy cardstock again and again. The words on the page had long since lost their meaning, and it was still all he could think about. Greg leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second. He could feel the weight of it—the pull of curiosity, the strange inclination to just pick up the phone.  

"Right," he muttered under his breath. He could probably call. It wasn’t a crime. He was only slightly out of his depth. What’s the worst that could happen, right?  

His phone felt heavier in his hand than it had any right to. His finger hovered over the dial button for a long moment before he tapped it. The tone rang in his ear, each second stretching longer than the last.  

It rang four times before the line clicked, and Greg was greeted by the low, unmistakable voice of Mycroft Holmes.  

“Lestrade,” he said, no hint of surprise in his low tone. “To what do I owe the honour?”  

“I, uh—” Greg started, but his throat felt dry, and his words fell to pieces as he tried to make sense of why he was doing this. He wasn’t sure. But, well…  

“You told me to call,” Greg said finally, not entirely sure if that was the truth. “I just thought I’d…tell you I got your message.”  

There was a long pause. Mycroft didn’t speak immediately, and for a moment, Greg wondered if he’d hung up.  

But then, Mycroft’s voice returned, softer, more measured. “I appreciate the confirmation.” 

Greg frowned, still not sure where this conversation was headed. “Right. Um… So, uh. Just wanted to… check-in. About—well, you know. Stuff.”  

“Stuff?” Mycroft repeated, sounding just a little amused. “You’ll have to be more specific, Detective.”  

Greg inhaled sharply, annoyed now. “I don’t know. I guess I thought you might’ve had a better idea of what I meant. You offered to help. If I needed anything, you said. What am I missing?”  

Mycroft’s voice softened further. “Ah. I see. There’s nothing specific. I just…I know you often ask my brother for assistance, but I have greater resources. I thought I would offer…those resources. That was…quite genuine. Just an offer. Let me know when you need something. I am. Well. Available.”  

Greg felt a strange warmth in his chest at the quiet sincerity in Mycroft’s voice. He wasn’t sure why, but it made him want to say something more.  

“Well,” Greg started, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”  

Another pause. A beat. And then, in the silence, Greg thought he could hear a faint sigh on the other end of the line.  

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft said quietly. And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Take care, Gregory.”  

The line clicked off before Greg could respond. The sudden finality of the call left him staring at his phone in disbelief. He’d never been particularly good with these kinds of calls, the ones that ended on a note of… well, something that felt like possibility.

He put the phone down on his desk and ran his fingers over his forehead.  

“Well,” he muttered under his breath, “that wasn’t weird at all.”  

But, in truth, he didn’t feel as unsettled as he thought he should. Something about the conversation—about the quietness of it—had felt strangely reassuring.

Chapter Text

Mycroft sighed and collapsed, forehead first, onto his desk. He’d been watching the clock all morning. He had things he should be doing, he was almost sure of it. Very important, government-filled, Tuesday things. And he’d done exactly zero of them since he’d arrived. He kept waiting for the phone to ring. 

Why. Why had he sent that card? He should have run it past Anthea. She could at have stopped him. Or at least reminded him of his cell phone, of his ability to send a fucking text message instead of delivering a physical card like he was an 18th-century gentleman caller. Now he had set Detective Lestrade on edge, and for what? The hope that sometimes he’d be able to assist on police cases? With the Met? Like what…a member of the Scooby squad his brother had formed? 

“Anthea!” he called into the outer office. “Please call a car. I am going out.” 

Her head appeared in the doorway. “Of course. Am I to join you? Should I give any direction to the driver?”

Mycroft shook his head and she curtly excused herself. 

Mycroft's car rolled through the streets of London, the driver silent as he navigated the familiar route. If Sherlock was not where he was meant to be, Mycroft was going to be in a proper, well-earned strope. And he would determine later how much of his current buzzing, electrified frustration led back to Greg Lestrade.

Why had he even involved himself in the man’s life at all? It was the part of this that he could not understand, could not reach the bottom of.

Sure, Lestrade had an easy manner, a subtlety that Mycroft prized; he’d noticed him several times, of course. But he was a Holmes - he noticed everything. He was rather adept at filtering out the things that did not need to enter his conscious thoughts. Then, when he'd heard the detective's voice on the phone, there had been... something in the air between them. An unspoken understanding? A shared experience, however fleeting? Not normally a motivator for him to act.

It was a puzzle, but not one he felt like solving right now.

The car pulled into the private drive of one of Mycroft's less public properties, a quiet place he often retreated to when he needed to clear his head. As he stepped out, he was greeted by the quiet stillness of the grounds. He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs. There was a peace here that London’s noise couldn't offer.

John opened the door at the second knock, presumably having heard the car roll up. 

“Mycroft,” he said warmly, any and all surprise carefully covered by a gentle smile of knowing concern. “He’s here. He’s fine. We’re at forty-eight hours and counting. He’s…well, honestly, he’s in a giant snit, but that’s hardly surprising.” 

“I’m sorry, I know I should have called. I just found the office a tad suffocating today and figured I would take advantage of the lovely day. Do you think he’ll see me?” 

John shrugged with a small laugh. “Only one way to find out. Come through.” 

He followed John through the large entryway to the back sitting room that they’d always preferred as children. The fireplace had been replaced since then, in favour of an electric number that was somewhat realistic and required far less chopping of wood and preparation before warmth was provided.  

He reminded himself as he wandered these halls how much he liked John.  In truth, there were very few people whose opinions he actively sought, even fewer whose presence he actively wanted . In a short time, John had managed to make that list. Sometimes, his own brother was not on that list. 

His mind attempted to offer him a new possibility as he registered affection for John Watson; was the fact that he was obsessing over the simplest of interactions with a man he scarcely knew just misplaced affection for someone who cared for his brother? He was acutely aware of his thoughts spiralling again as he tried to focus on the task at hand. 

"He's upstairs," John said casually, glancing back at Mycroft as they reached the base of the stairs. "We’ve both been keeping our distance. He’s... he’s fine, but well, you know how he can be.”

"Thank you, John," Mycroft murmured, his tone warmer than he’d intended. There was something about John’s steadiness that made him feel a bit less out of place. "I appreciate it."

John smiled at him, something knowing in his gaze. "I know," he said, stepping aside to let Mycroft go first. 

The stairs creaked beneath Mycroft’s weight as he ascended, and he couldn’t help but wonder, with a sense of mild unease, if Sherlock would even acknowledge his presence. They hadn’t parted on good terms, what with Mycroft once again ‘interfering’ in his ‘experiments’. 

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, his back to the door, completely still, except for the faint tapping of his fingers on the side of the chair, a rhythmic motion that seemed oddly calming in the otherwise tense atmosphere. The room, as usual, was cluttered with papers, open books, and half-finished experiments scattered across the floor. The smell of unwashed coffee cups, his violin perched precariously on the edge of the bed. 

"Your timing," Sherlock’s voice broke the silence, low and deliberately measured, "is impeccable, as usual."

Mycroft let out a breath, the tightness in his chest easing slightly at the sound of Sherlock's voice. "I didn’t mean to disturb you," he replied, trying for a calm tone that masked the underlying irritation he always felt when he had to tiptoe around his brother’s moods. "I just needed a change of scenery.”

“Yes, this had nothing to do with ensuring my forced sobriety had continued. Did John call you?” 

Mycroft sighed. “You know he didn’t. Don’t be tedious Sherlock.” 

Sherlock finally turned, his sharp eyes scanning Mycroft with that usual calculating gaze that never failed to feel like his mother was studying him again. Not that he’d ever let Sherlock know how much he hated that gaze. 

"Fine. Yes. I was checking on you,," Mycroft said dryly, though he didn’t let his discomfort show. He moved to stand by the window, his gaze falling to the city below. "I also needed to see you. I think—" 

He cut himself off, not quite sure how to continue. After all, when was the last time they’d had an honest conversation that wasn’t clouded by one of Sherlock’s cases or Mycroft’s endless stream of bureaucratic obligations?

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, his expression unreadable. "Needed to see me? What, you’ve had some sort of revelation about the state of our relationship, Mycroft? Are you... feeling guilty? Regretful?"

Mycroft chuckled darkly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Not quite. I’ve just realised that until this little adventure you were on, I’d been avoiding you. Perhaps it’s the same reason you’ve been avoiding me."

Sherlock’s lips curled in a way that suggested he was both amused and unimpressed. "Avoiding you is hardly a challenge, Mycroft. But I’ve indeed been somewhat... detached from the usual patterns lately. What of it.” 

Mycroft laughed, the sound coming out unexpectedly warm. It wasn’t often he could laugh at something Sherlock said without the bite of irritation creeping in. “Alright. Let’s continue to pretend we are not talking about the same things.” 

Sherlock didn’t respond immediately, his eyes flicking briefly to the piles of papers on his desk before settling back on Mycroft. They stood in terse, tense silence for a moment. Mycroft decided to sit on the bed, against his better judgement.

Finally, Sherlock just sighed. “I am fine. John has been making me eat. For what it’s worth…well, no, I am not sorry. But I do suspect I can be less dramatic about my drug use if I put my mind to it.” 

“That’s more than you’ve ever promised before. I guess I have no choice but to take it.” 

"You should just go see him," Sherlock said quietly, almost as an afterthought.

Mycroft blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the suggestion. "What?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock clarified, his tone still oddly casual. "You’re obsessing over him, whether you admit it or not. I assume since the party?”

Mycroft felt a surge of frustration. "Sherlock, I—"

"Come now, Mycroft. There are only so many variables to your life. You mentioned running into him twice that night. Now you're here, checking on me in person. What is it you need? Permission?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, but realised it was slightly pointless. Sherlock had never had much difficulty cutting to the quick of whatever Mycroft's worst fears were. 

"Don’t try to pretend this is about anything else. You’re not fooling me." Sherlock’s eyes were sharper than ever now, piercing through the air between them. "I assume you've done something strange and stupid? And now you're what? Worried about the reaction? I wouldn't. He's disturbingly patient, our DI Lestrade. Just be honest with him." 

For a moment, Mycroft said nothing. He could feel his heart rate pick up, his breath slowing as Sherlock’s words settled into the quiet space of the room.

"There is nothing to be honest about and I was not asking for advice,"  Mycroft bit out. 

Sherlock just fixed him with a withering stare. 

"Fine," Mycroft said finally, his voice steadier than he felt. "I’ll think about it."

Sherlock gave a small, satisfied nod, though his eyes softened slightly. "I’m not going to offer advice on relationships, Mycroft. But I think you should get used to the idea that not everything needs to be a calculation. Some things... just happen."

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Lestrade was different. He wasn’t like the usual suspects Mycroft dealt with—the sycophants, the ambitious, the power-hungry. Lestrade was... grounded. Real.

Mycroft turned toward the door, his hand hovering on the knob. He didn’t look back. "I’ll see you later, Sherlock."

"Good luck," Sherlock called after him. "And don’t be an idiot."

Mycroft’s lips twitched into a brief, almost imperceptible smile before he left the room. 

Chapter Text

Greg was dressing in a languid, unhurried way that he definitely did not have time for. He was, in course of fact, going to be late. He should have texted someone about that and did not. He should have chosen a button-up-and-trousers wardrobe faster than he had. He should have already made coffee and packed up his laptop. But he couldn’t find it in him to hurry. 

He still had no leads on the stupid robbery case (which was almost certainly an inside job). He still had no leads on any of the three cases that were open on his roster. He still had no leads on why Mycroft Holmes had sent him personal mail (though that was not, strictly, a Thing He Was Allowed to Think About). And it was raining and cold and he would rather have just gotten back into bed. 

He was so miserable that he almost, almost called in sick to work. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that. He was normally the sort to work until he was at death’s door. Once, he’d passed out at a crime scene from the flu and had to be taken to A&E by ambulance so that the victim’s family wouldn’t press charges. But he was, unavoidably, in a slump. It would probably be safer for all of London if he just put his jumper back on and crawled into bed with his laptop to watch some true crime documentaries that would annoy him until he fell asleep. 

Having crossed the point of no return in terms of putting on pants, however, he grabbed his keys, phone and wallet, left his computer bag where it was, threw on an overcoat, grabbed an umbrella, and decided that if he had to be alert and technically an officer of the law today, he was not going to do it from the confines of the office. 

Unsurprisingly, his bleary head did not clear in the oppressive heat of the Northern Line, which was down to two trains and therefore rammed full of people who were, presumably, also late to their morning jobs. He had forgotten his earphones, still had no caffeine, and was very close to committing murder himself when the trains finally spat him out at Tottenham Court Road. Any relief he would have felt by being out of the depths of tube was immediately trampled to death by lost tourists and by the construction that had swallowed up most of Soho for so many years that Greg was fuzzy on the timeline. 

He ducked into the first Costa he saw, not keen on ending up with a £10 latte because he’d ventured too far into Posh territory. Having acquired a brownie and a flat white, and determined to act like a human being before he got to the jewlery shop, London decided that it was the perfect moment to be London and began to properly chuck it down. The drops were large, pervasive, and freezing. 

He dashed through the streets, getting his umbrella up by jostling the coffee in the crook of an elbow and therefore almost screamed out loud when he arrived at his crime scene to find his police line tape disturbed, and three, large, black cars stationed illegally out front. 

“Feds,” he grumbled, as always, favouring American Hollywood when frustrated. 

He stormed defiantly into the shop, sure that he looked like a raving lunatic, and stopped dead at the calm scene before him. 

Three men, all in suits that were too large, stood talking to the small manager. For a man who had barely used his name with Greg on Monday, he seemed to have quite a lot to say now. 

“S’cuse me,” he boomed. “I’d like to know who is in charge here. Last I checked, this was my case. Jurisdiction papers, if you will?” 

“Officer, if you will just—”

“DI.” 

“Pardon?”

“Detective Inspector. Not officer. Who asked you an incredibly simple question? Now if you could please direct me to your superior, I would be most grateful.” 

He knew he had shifted into the tone that often made the younger officers go running off to their union reps, but he was pretty fucking annoyed at this point and it wasn’t even half ten. 

“I will handle this, Frederick,” said a calm, stoic voice over his shoulder. “Detective Lestrade. I…well, I want to apologise but that seems rather paltry all things considered.” 

Greg whipped around, even though he did not need visual confirmation of what was happening to him. He’d been basically dreaming about that voice since it had come down a phoneline at him forty-eight hours earlier. 

“Mr Holmes,” he declared. He cleared his throat. “I—well, I guess I assumed that your offer of help wasn’t gonna be quite so…concrete. Or, erm. Swift.” 

“I assure you that despite how this may look, this is a rather extraordinary coincidence.”

Greg felt his eyebrow raise and his mouth scowl. Mycroft didn't really expect him to believe that bullshit, did he? Greg despised lies. 

“Oh, okay,” he grumbled. “It’s a coincidence that the great Holmes’ brother number one sent me a cryptic message on the same day a case crossed my desk? And that coincidence continued into the government having a vested interest in that very same case?"

"Trust me, I understand your reticence in—" 

"It isn't even a complex case. It's only been classified as robbery because a window was broken. I'm pretty sure he did it!" Greg declared, pointing at the owner.  

Mycroft frowned, the expression ageing him ten years and making him look utterly exhausted. “I would appreciate it if you believed me, detective. I would explain further if I could.” 

"Right. Well. I know how this works. Your suits are here now. I am expected to leave. That about the sum of it?”

Tilting his chin up to Greg and looking — confusingly, disorientingly — a little bit hurt, Mycroft nodded.

“Unfortunately, that is indeed the sum of it.” 

“Right then,” Greg huffed. 

He took a deep sip of his coffee, made sure he was ready to put his umbrella back up and marched out into the street. 

“Detective Lestrade!” he heard behind him as he strode away. 

Greg spun around to find Mycroft, uncovered and walking at a relatively undignified pace to try and catch up to him. Greg froze. 

“Jesus, Holmes,” Greg said, stretching his arm out and covering them both. “It’s pissing it down. What the fuck are you doing? Go back inside.”

“I just needed to…” Mycroft paused, his breath coming in short, heavy huffs that puffed into the cold air between them. 

Umbrellas being what they are, they were standing alarmingly close to each other. Certainly closer than they’d been when Mycroft had stolen and snuck a cigarette. Most definitely closer than Greg felt like he could be to a man whose voice had sent him spiralling for no apparent reason. 

“I just needed to assure you, again. I had no idea this was your case. I was sent here by…foreign offices. I am not normally on the ground for these types of involvement. But this one…”

Greg smiled, suddenly unable to contain the expression, though he had not considered smiling at any point yet this morning. But Mycroft Holmes was seriously flustered, and in an instant, Greg knew exactly what game they were playing. Mycroft Holmes didn’t get flustered ; Mycroft Holmes likely had nuclear codes. Armed assassins. Knew all the words to the Magna Carta, at least the relevant bits. But there was no denying it, with him less than an umbrella’s length away.

A flood of relief went through him. It was nice to know that he had not created the entire thing in his mind. That tone, coupled with that unsettled facial expression, was the first time that Greg had allowed himself to believe that Mycroft had borrowed a smoke off him at a Christmas party earlier that week. He'd almost managed to convince himself he'd invented the entire evening. All at once, Greg's body settled down and relaxed into preternatural calm. They were simply flirting. Greg knew how to flirt. He enjoyed it, in fact. Especially with fit people who seemed to have no idea, yet, that they were flirting with him. 

So, letting the rain fall off the umbrella that he tipped away from them both, he shrugged. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Whether you believe me or not, your sudden arrival here isn’t the reason I’m in a crap mood. That's my own damn fault. I didn’t have a clue where I was going with this case. I’m fine handing over the reins. After all, it's almost like I took you up on your offer, huh?” 

Greg took a gentle, almost imperceptible step back, but as he did so, he chose recklessness — a distinctly Lestrade trait if his superiors were to be believed. Greg backed away from Mycroft Holmes, but as he did so? 

He winked.

“Gonna get myself into the office, though. If you don’t need me here?” Greg said innocently, letting Mycroft’s head start taking the brunt of the storm again. “Let me know if the Met can be of any assistance, Mr Holmes.” 

He lifted his coffee in a small wave, turned on his heel, and trotted back toward the tube, refusing to let himself look back. 

Mycroft quickly stepped into the shop behind him, shaking off his overcoat and running a gloved hand through his hair. 

“Fuck,” he murmured as the door closed behind him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck .” 

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Do we have anything useful?” 

Chapter Text

Mycroft simply didn’t sleep that night; partly because he got home at three in the morning, and had to be back in the office for eight. More because he tossed and turned the entire time he lay in his bed. 

He had technically been aware when he’d been sent to investigate a case that it had already been picked up by the local law enforcement. And he should have realised that the chances of running into Lestrade were quite high. Despite the Met employing over 35000 officers, with approximately 600 Detective Inspectors, that is not how Mycroft’s life tended to work. 

If you did not know him well, you would assume that Mycroft’s life ran based on a statistical analysis of odds and mathematical constants; you’d believe him dispassionate and focused solely on facts. If you knew his brother at all and then compared the older Holmes sibling to him, you may be tempted to label Mycroft Holmes cold, impassive, unsentimental. 

You would, on all accounts, be wrong. His grandfather, whom he very much took after, had been a poet of some renown. Not many alive still knew this very selectively given fact. 

So while Mycroft was incredibly intelligent, even though he had quite carefully crafted this fact into a lore surrounding him, he was, unfortunately, quite a romantic. If you gave him enough wine or whiskey, he’d explain to you how improbable it was that some form of magic or fate did not exist in the world. Even if you examined cold, hard mathematics, numbers formed illogical patterns, and broke the rules that humans had tried to impose simply for the sake of creating an exception. Science made even more sense when examined for destiny. Deep in a drawer in his mother’s house, in fact, there was a typewritten manuscript that would never see the light of day. It was entitled The Mathematics of Kismet. He held the values still even if he had enough sense nowadays to pretend he had a gift for prose. 

Mycroft was not hubristic. “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio than are dreamt of in your philosophy”. Written, perhaps, by another poet, but an axiom that he could live by. 

So no. He was not surprised that he had, quite by accident regardless of what anyone believed, taken over Gregory’s open case. It wasn’t hard to believe, even if it was incredibly improbable. Even given gambling odds, the chances weren’t that low — about 0.17% odds if you are a betting sort. 

Still, the odds did nothing to comfort his gut as he tried to sleep. 

The problem, of course, was that Mycroft didn’t know Gregory well. He didn’t know him or at least had not realised enough about him (he did actually have enough evidence at hand had he attempted to connect the dots). Greg wasn’t a proud man, either. It’s why he had no problem, most times, calling Sherlock. He’d groan and grumble, and make a show of being proven wrong, but he still became the one to defend Sherlock and his techniques if it was necessary. Greg didn’t entirely care who solved a case, or even really how it was done, as long as the puzzle was solved, the right person was found and asked to pay for their decisions. As long as the world remained as close to fair as he could make it while still technically working for law enforcement. 

Mycroft hadn’t noticed this pattern because his obsession with the actions and thoughts of Gregory Lestrade was incredibly new. And therefore, he was very worried about how this theft of cases was going to be perceived. 

He got up at his alarm, showered quickly, and was behind his ostentatious desk before anyone else had even turned the lights on in the office. He normally enjoyed these moments, when he was truly alone and perfectly at ease. Today, however, he was very relieved when Anthea practically ran into the space, alarmed to find him there already. 

“Did I miss a call?” she asked, slightly breathless. No doubt because she’d found the alarm already off. 

“No, no,” he assured her. “I did not…sleep well. I was here a bit ahead of schedule. 

“Oh. Okay,” Anthea said, deflating from full alarm to slight suspicion. “I was going to run down and get us all coffee, but I will stay.”

“No, coffee would be very appreciated, Anthea,” he insisted. “Can I please have that large catalogue they deliver every month before you go? The one with all the…shiny pictures?” 

She smirked at him. “The corporate Harrod’s catalogue? You want the Harrod’s catalogue?” 

“I suppose I do, yes.” 

“Is there any point in asking you why? Are we…grovelling?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. “In a sense, yes, I suppose we are.”

“In that case, sir, please steer clear of the mini muffins. They have been done to death.” 

He arched an eyebrow at her, irritated. “Duly noted. Two milk today, please.” 

She handed him the large book from her desk, dumped her jacket and bag, and left to obtain provisions from the coffee cart. 

Chapter Text

“Lestrade,” a voice called from the security desk. “You expecting a package?”

“Nope!” he returned. 

“Better come see this one, then. Looks expensive.” 

Greg sighed. He could use the standing break, but usually, the ‘no’ to expected packages was enough to stop the fanatic shit that would arrive unprompted at the precinct. It didn’t take much for people to decide they could send angry letters or slightly suspicious boxes; Christ, he’d closed a football pitch for three hours to investigate the murder that had taken place there overnight, and he’d had to dodge exploding hate mail for weeks. 

When he arrived at the desk, he understood why this particular gift hadn’t just hit the waste bin.

A giant hamper, tied with green and gold ribbon, stamped with the telltale scrolling H was looming large on the precipice.

“Very fancy, that,” the security officer said with a chuckle. “Either we did an excellent job or you’ve got one hell of a secret admirer.”

Greg sighed and scrubbed his face. “Not so secret,” he proclaimed, scooping the hamper into his arms. “Sorry, mate.” 

He pulled the ribbon off at his desk and carefully opened the hamper. He should probably have been wearing gloves, but he also had a relatively good feeling he knew what was happening here. 

He found a fancy cardstock note inside, one whose edges felt disturbingly similar to the one he’d managed to worry into shambles in his pocket over the course of the week. That felt ludicrous since they couldn’t have sent the same cardstock. Perhaps all posh paper just felt the same. 

With apologies, it read. Nothing else. Not even a signature this time. 

Inside, he found all the food hall foods he’d never managed to justify and only understood because of various office places and strange parties over decades of policing; cocoa dusted almonds, artisanal marmalade and water crackers, biscuits layered thick with chocolate, and coffee beans. It smelled like luxury itself, like he was walking through Harrod’s on a rainy afternoon in Knightsbridge.

Frustrated, he took it to the central table. 

“Case gift, everyone!” he called out, not caring that no one was actually interested in the basket. He stalked back to his desk, dropping into his chair with a growl.

He picked up the receiver of his desk phone five times. He did not dial. He was having a hard time placing his annoyance. It was a nice gesture. It had…fancy cheese and was well-timed. It was clear it hadn’t been cheap. It had obviously been intended for everyone in the office, not just him. But he was, despite all evidence, vexed. 

Why not sign the card? Why not call him first? Why not just ask Greg if he was still mad about the case? They had communication available to them. This is eventually how Greg managed to get past his frustration; taking a wild chance that the number he had was not a landline (fifty-fifty, he reasoned), he sent a text out into the void. 

And then he went to retrieve a sleeve of unnecessarily posh chocolate fingers. 

Why? It read. 

It went unanswered.

Mycroft stared at the word for five minutes. Twenty. By lunchtime, he’d had to lock his phone in his desk drawer to stop his neck from reheating in great, confused shame. Lestrade’s message was simple, blunt, and far more effective than he’d expected. And it made Mycroft want to throw something.

He had no idea what had gone wrong. Sure, the gift had been an attempt at something— something —but why hadn’t Lestrade understood? What had he expected? Some grand gesture? A face-to-face apology? Surely, Lestrade wasn’t that dense.

He was about to get up and take himself for a walk in the dull grey street when Anthea stormed in and pulled one of his visitor chairs up close to the desk. She plopped a takeaway bag on the table and pulled out two bowls. 

“Poke,” she announced. “Salmon or tuna?”

He smiled, resigned to an Anthea-driven lunch date. “Tuna,” he surrendered, and she pushed the bowl to him. 

“So,” she said a moment later as she distributed sauce, plastic forks and serviettes. “Who did we send a £300 gift hamper to and why? I assume we didn’t screw up governmentally since we used your personal account, so did we screw up personally? Who is he?” 

Mycroft snorted. “One day, I shall get something by you and have to fire you as a result.” 

She winked at him, rearranging her face into mock horror. “Heaven forbid. So. Spill.” 

“Spill?”

“Tell all. Gab it up. Dish. Whatever it is the kids say these days.”

“You are barely 30.” 

“I work for you. I am ancient by proximity. I’d have to have friends and social life to keep up with the lingo — oh dear lord, relax, I am joking, I get enough time off. Don’t change the subject.” 

“The basket was delivered earlier today to the Metropolitan Police.” 

Anthea tilted her head at him, chewing her mouthful of edamame.

“Nope,” she finally decided. “I do not have enough information on this one.”

“I know. And that is where I have erred gravely, for you could have saved me from myself.” 

“Ooo. Juicy. Go on.” 

And so, he did. 

“Yeah, well,” Anthea replied when he had finished, biting into her food with a grin, “You’ve never been the kind of guy who would go in for an emotional apology, have you?”

Mycroft shot her a brief, sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you know. The ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t come naturally to you. That’s why you send hampers.” She almost mocked the word, but it was playful, not cruel.

“I’m not a fool, Anthea. I was trying to be… discreet. I thought the gesture might be enough to alleviate some of the tension.”

Anthea snorted. “Oh, please. You’re a Holmes. A walking, talking enigma. You’ve just discovered the elusive nature of feelings? Do you want me to send you a card and some expensive cheese too? Should I let you have a moment?” 

“I’m not a child,” Mycroft bit back, but there was no heat in his words, just the weariness of someone who couldn’t quite figure out why everything was so complicated.

Anthea leaned forward, intrigued, as she pushed her poke bowl aside. She was always a sucker for gossip, but when it came to Mycroft’s personal life—or whatever this was—she had an insatiable curiosity.

“So,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “You sent Lestrade a £300 gift to smooth things over after some case mishap. But he didn’t seem to appreciate it, did he? Or at least, he didn't react the way you expected him to. Which was what, exactly? Running to your office to declare undying love? Have you ever spoken to the man for more than five minutes? I'm not sure I even understand why you care if you've upset him.”

Mycroft’s lips twisted, his expression indiscernible as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve. “Lestrade… is not easily appeased, if my brother is to be believed,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on his lunch, as if it might offer some kind of insight into what had gone so terribly wrong. "We have to keep him on the good side of the Holmes'. For...my brothers sake." 

“Yeah, well,” Anthea replied, biting into her food with a grin, “But you don't actually know him. You can't appease someone you don't know. How do you even know he's annoyed? How did you leave it?" 

Mycroft sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Anthea smirked. "I see." 

“He’s infuriating. A text. Why? That’s all he said. One word. Why? Why am I here? Why did I do it? Why did I… feel like I needed to send the gift in the first place?” His voice trailed off as he stared blankly at the wall. “I’m not accustomed to this. It’s... unfamiliar.”

"You're not accustomed to people not understanding you when you use bizarre turns of phrase, distance, and confusing, unexplained gestures to convey meaning?" 

"You know what I meant. I just...don't understand why it is bothering me this time." 

“Liar."

He glared at her, unease seeping into the conversation.

"Well I mean really, sir. Here we are. You’ve locked yourself in your office, obsessed over a single text from the man, and managed to work yourself into a frenzy in the process,” she said, leaning back with a knowing look. “What's next? Send his mother a letter and hope he finds it endearing?" 

"Anthea," he warned.

Anthea raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. But enough of this ‘I’m confused by Lestrade’ nonsense. The answer is much simpler.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Do tell.”

“You like him,” she said simply.

For a moment, Mycroft’s mind seemed to freeze. He could feel the pulse at his temples start to pick up, his thoughts scattering like marbles, none of them landing in the right place. “Well, obviously, Anthea. But what do I do about it?” 

Anthea shrugged. “I’m mostly just surprised you had already figured it out.”

“I may have had help.”

“Of course you did. But. You do realise that we do not address crushes with being a prat around him for months, mysteriously stealing his cigarettes, and sending strange notecards to his office. Followed by oddly expensive gifts of the sort we normally only send to our bosses or Gran's. What did you expect him to do? Run to your office to declare undying love? You didn't even have me sign your name." 

"I. I don't know how to do this." 

"Not like this, Sir. Please tell me you've realised this? 

Mycroft set his fork down with a clink, his eyes darting to the window as if the grey sky might offer some solace or clarity. “I—” He stopped, swallowing the words he couldn’t form.

The truth was that every encounter with Greg Lestrade, from their first meeting to their latest run-ins, had been an exercise in frustration, followed by something far less concrete. Something that crept in under his skin and stayed there, an annoying little itch that made it hard to think straight whenever Greg was around.

“Oh dear, Mr Holmes.” 

“I don’t tend to…” 

“Oh, stop. Please. I understand. You definitely do not need to explain that one to me of all people. Alright. Get your fancy notebook out. We are making a plan.” 

Chapter Text

Anthea’s voice was in his head as he hesitated on the street outside the office. Is it infatuation? Is it admiration? Or, dare I say, is it actual romantic interest? He'd immediately known the answer, of course. He had spent enough time analyzing every aspect of his emotions regarding Greg Lestrade to know that they were far more than basic interests. There was a deep sense of respect, yes, but there was also something else. Something raw and uncharted.

But, the problem was her next step. The question of ‘how does he feel?’. To that, he had no answer. They didn’t exactly know each other; finding someone attractive was one thing. Forcing a relationship where none had previously existed? That was outside of Mycroft’s realm of experience.  Lestrade had never seemed to be anything other than begrudgingly tolerant of Mycroft’s presence.

“Which means it’s time to gather intel,” Anthea had insisted. “How do I put this so you'll understand? You need to do...an experiment. You need to observe his behaviour. See how he reacts around you, without you getting all. Well, you. No sudden gifts, no cryptic messages. You need to learn to just be in his presence. See if anything changes.”

So now, he was standing outside Greg’s office without an appointment or invitation. He still had not replied to the text. Still had now acknowledged the apparent weirdness of his gift-giving. He took a deep breath and mentally shook himself off. He was being ridiculous. He had no reason to fear Lestrade’s reaction to his presence; if negative, he could simply leave, return to his regularly scheduled life, no harm done.

He straightened his coat and ran a hand through his dark hair in a futile attempt to smooth out the disarray of his thoughts. Trying to settle himself into a mask of ‘normal’. 

He had never been good at normal.

“Lestrade?” he asked at the security desk, his voice steady, even if his stomach felt like it was doing an acrobatic routine. The man pointed to a desk in the back corner, behind a waist-high glass wall. He nodded in thanks and marched as confidently as he could to the desk, where he found Greg Lestrade, looking slightly dishevelled but very much in his element. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, a coffee cup in one hand, and his eyes were half-lidded with the faintest hint of annoyance.

"Holmes?" Greg blinked, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "What do you want?"

It was a simple question, but Mycroft felt the weight of it. What did he want? That was the problem. He didn’t know. Or at least, he wasn’t sure how to articulate it without sounding like a complete fool.

"I—" Mycroft began, his mind suddenly a jumble of words, none of which sounded remotely plausible. "I thought I’d stop by. Explain myself. Easier than replying to your message."

Greg’s gaze flickered from Mycroft’s face to the room full of desks behind him, as though trying to assess whether this was some sort of elaborate scheme. He seemed to relax slightly, though the edge of wariness never fully left his expression.

"Okay, " Greg said with a slight shrug, stepping back and waving a hand toward the small cluttered space. "Come on in, then."

Mycroft hesitated, just for a moment, before stepping inside. It was hardly a room. A desk, two chairs, too many files for the space, and a small potted plant on the ledge of the tiny window. It would have driven Mycroft mad to try and work here. 

As though noticing his study, Greg chuckled. “Yeah, open concept office. Changed it two years ago. It’s not as bad as you’d think.” 

Suddenly, all Mycroft could focus on was Greg—standing there in his button-up shirt and faded jeans, looking both exasperated and a little bemused, as if unsure what to make of his visitor.

"So," Greg said after a beat, still holding his coffee cup as if the warmth would keep him grounded. "What is it you wanted, exactly? Not trying to be rude, but things are a little crazy around here today.” 

Mycroft felt a slight twinge of embarrassment. He had no business standing here. He cleared his throat.

“I just thought I would explain more, about the case I inadvertently took you out of,” Mycroft said with a forced smile. "I simply thought it might be... well, easier to talk face-to-face."

“I told you, Mr Holmes. No anger there. Is that why you felt the need to send that ridiculously large hamper? You know you technically need to register packages sent to the police department?” Greg said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Would’ve thought you, of all people, would know that one. Could have been quite a disaster had someone decided it was suspicious. ”

Mycroft closed his eyes, sighing at himself. 

“Still. It was thoughtful. Enjoyed by everyone. So, thanks. But you really don’t need to apologise.”

It felt like a trap, even though the words themselves were innocuous. The way Greg said it, with that teasing undertone, made Mycroft’s pulse spike. He felt like every move of muscle, every breath, was being x-rayed and analysed. Since that was normally his trick, it was throwing him off. 

“Knowing Sherlock as I do,” Greg added. “I am going to assume you’ve been overthinking everything lately. Am I right?”

“I…yes, I guess I have,” Mycroft admitted, his voice softening as he took a careful step closer. “And I’ve concluded that I’ve been rather foolish. In my attempts to... communicate, if you will.”

Greg tilted his head, clearly intrigued but still wary. “Foolish, huh? Can’t say I’ve ever known you or your brother to do anything that could be considered foolish.”

"Well," he continued, struggling to keep the words from stumbling over each other, "Perhaps that’s because you haven’t been on the receiving end of my... subtle gestures."

Greg gave him a questioning look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

For a moment, Mycroft found himself at a loss for words. How could he explain the strange, simmering connection that had been building between them? How could he admit that every one of his actions—those small, seemingly inconsequential moments he’d allowed himself to indulge in—had been an attempt to get Greg’s attention? It had only been a week for Greg. A week was not enough time for most people to get anywhere near as discombobulated as Mycroft was. Still, Mycroft simply took another breath and said the only thing that seemed right.

“I think I may have been... sending the wrong signals.”

Greg’s expression softened, his head tilting slightly as he studied Mycroft, eyes narrowing in thought. “Okay,” he said slowly, “and what signals are you trying to send?”

Mycroft blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. For a moment, he couldn’t help but wonder if Greg had already picked up on something more than Mycroft had expected. The realization was disorienting.

"To put it simply, Detective Lestrade," Mycroft said, the words flowing more naturally than he expected, "I was trying to figure out how to be around you. That night. At the party. I feel like I left things unsaid. I was trying to continue our conversation without making things complicated.” 

Greg’s brows shot up, and his lips twitched as if trying not to smile. "That note, the cryptic one you did not sign? That was you trying to keep things from getting complicated ?” 

Mycroft couldn’t help but smile, albeit a little self-consciously. “I suppose I did not succeed.” 

For a moment, there was silence between them. Mycroft felt it—a shift in the air, something unspoken but palpable. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something different now. The walls of the office, cluttered as they were, seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of them standing there.

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Greg said, after a moment, “you’re not the first person to overthink things around me.”

"Good to know," he replied softly, a small smile tugging at his lip. 

“I have an idea,” Greg said, loud and jovial. “Let’s start over. I’m not in a stupid Christmas jumper, you’re not worried about your brother. So. Hi.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. You can call me Greg. And you are?” 

Mycroft smiled a small, scared smile. He could appreciate the attempt here. Mycroft’s fingers brushed against Greg’s as he reached out to take his hand; an expected jolt of warmth shot through him. The touch was brief, almost tentative, but the connection lingered in a way that made Mycroft’s breath hitch slightly. For a moment, neither of them moved, both of them aware of the minute, charged undercurrent that hummed between them.

Greg’s eyes flickered down to their joined hands, and then back up to Mycroft’s face, his brow furrowing for the briefest second. There was something there in his expression—something unreadable yet undeniably intense. His thumb brushed lightly over Mycroft’s knuckles, the action slow and deliberate, as if testing the waters. It was so small, so unassuming, but it felt like an invitation. An unspoken challenge.

 “Mycroft Holmes," he murmured. "Mycroft, if you will.” 

“Lovely to meet you," Greg replied quietly. "Unfortunately, Mycroft, I am quite busy here today. But, I’m wondering if you’d like to grab lunch. Tomorrow? With me.” 

Mycroft blinked; Greg Lestrade was inviting him to lunch? After everything—after the notes, the perplexing gift, the overthinking, the fleeing—it was a small miracle. And yet, the casualness with which Greg had offered the invitation suggested that, perhaps, it wasn’t quite as monumental to him as it was to Mycroft. 

Greg’s grin softened into something more genuine as he noticed Mycroft’s hesitation. He stepped back slightly, as if to give Mycroft some space to think, though his eyes were still expectant, that quiet challenge in his gaze daring Mycroft to meet it head-on. 

“You don’t have to, of course,” Greg added, casually sipping from his coffee, as though offering a simple choice.

“I would... be glad to,” Mycroft said, surprising himself with the ease of the words. His heart skipped a beat as he added, “Tomorrow then.”

Greg’s face brightened, a genuine warmth spreading through his features. “Great! I know a place not far from here. We can meet here at noon if that works for you?”

Mycroft’s pulse quickened. He wasn’t used to this kind of intimacy, this kind of tension. His mind, always sharp and calculated, was momentarily thrown off course. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel this aware, this present. 

Greg’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. But there was something else there too—a quiet vulnerability, the way his gaze softened as he held Mycroft’s hand just a little longer than was necessary.

“Tomorrow, noon it is,” Mycroft replied, the words out before he could second-guess them. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And Greg?”

“Yeah?” Greg said, raising an eyebrow, his expression curious. 

“Thank you. For... giving me a chance to explain.” Mycroft hesitated for only a moment before adding, “And for the invitation.” 

Greg waved it off, his grin returning. “I’m looking forward to it.” 

As Mycroft turned to leave, he felt an unfamiliar sense of calm settle over him. He didn’t have all the answers, and he certainly hadn’t figured everything out about Greg or himself, but one thing was certain: they were taking the first step toward something new, and that was enough for now. His fingers tingled where Greg had touched him, the warmth of the contact still reverberating through him as he turned toward the door. 

"Tomorrow then," Mycroft said, turning back briefly to look at Greg.

"Yeah," Greg replied with a smile that could almost be called affectionate. "Tomorrow."

Tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

Greg was pacing the sidewalk outside the little French cafe he’d stupidly chosen. What the actual fuck had possessed him to suggest this? Like it was a good idea? What was he going to talk to Mycroft Holmes about for the hour required to have lunch? The man was a living, walking, talking, certified genius. They surely had nothing in common beyond Sherlock. And because the man had nice eyes and had given him the time of day, Greg had decided they should have a fancy lunch? Had he really gotten that desperate for company. He knew nothing about Mycroft as a person, and he knew nothing about Greg. 

This final thought is what made him pause. They knew nothing about each other. That’s how you started. Greg took a deep breath and remembered how to be a human being. It was an easy thing to forget, apparently, when dealing with a Holmes. 

The truth was, Mycroft had been flirting with him. This was an unavoidable fact. The man had deep auburn hair though the red was hard to see, particularly in the dim light of a bus stop or a police office. He had freckles on his wrist, at least the one he’d used to carefully, cautiously take a cigarette out of the package. He was an incredibly powerful man who approached Greg like he was a wild animal who may bolt. Who spoke to Greg in a strange, stilted way, carefully considering the things he could say without making Greg disappear. He had grey eyes that begged Greg to just understand him, even when he wasn’t saying anything and could not make himself understood. 

All these facts, when catalogued and placed in a neat file in the forefront of Gregory Lestrade’s mind, demanded attention and further exploration. He had to know more. He had to figure out what it was that Mycroft Holmes, an adorable man who Greg legitimately had not stopped thinking about for a full week, needed him to know about him. 

So, he stopped pacing. He looked down at himself. He was wearing the outfit that his sister affectionately labelled “Smart Jumper Greg”. Black cable knit with a shallow V, crisp white collar beneath, khaki chinos that were less than five years old and therefore still held their fold line despite having never been ironed. He had put on his good pea coat, the one he never wore on cases and had cost more than he’d ever spent on a garment before. He’d dressed this morning with the belief that he wasn’t trying, just going to work. Proving that he was, in fact, an idiot. Of course he had tried. Of course he had aimed to look less like a tired, broke copper of little to no importance. 

He straightened his own collar and forced himself to march inside.  

He found Mycroft already seated, a mug and a basket of bread in front of him. He looked so well-placed in the small, fancy cafe; there were tablecloths and tapers though it was only noon, and Mycroft was sitting with his arms folded on the table as though he belonged. There was a contemplative gaze to him that left Greg studying him from the door, unnoticed. He took a few moments of just appreciating Mycroft, seated and calm, not running in or running out or standing stiffly or pacing in concern.

Greg took a deep breath. Mycroft looked so much more attainable like this; his hair was cropped quite short, his face smoothly shaved. He wore a three-piece suit because of course he did, but it was a deep, rich shade of purple that only just missed black. His thumbs tapped in absent time to the music overhead, and he had a small smile on his face that he was definitely not aware of.

In short, he was beautiful.

Greg grinned as he sat down, throwing caution to the wind. There was a brief pause, and for a moment, the silence between them was palpable. Mycroft unfolded his hands, seeming unsure what to do with them; his eyes flicked to Greg’s face, as though cataloguing every microexpression, and his smile grew larger and shyer at the same time. It was unnerving, to be studied so thoroughly in silence before a greeting had even been attempted. Greg held his breath.

“Good afternoon, Detective Lestrade.”

“Greg, remember,” Greg teased. “Hello, Mycroft.”

“Lovely restaurant, thank you for choosing it.”

“Yeah,” Greg laughed lightly. “I... uh, I’ve never been. See it all the time, always mean to stop in. So if it’s terrible I take no responsibility.”

Mycroft merely smiled.

"So," Greg said, exhaling and casting around for a starting place. He gulped. "How’s work?" he spat in a panic. 

At the question, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping gently on the polished wood of the table. "Work," he repeated, as though he was weighing how much of the truth he should offer. "I have a great deal of it, as you can imagine. I am not often afforded the luxury of downtime."

Greg nodded, trying to think of something else to say. Small talk, he thought, was terribly named. It was not small. It was nearly impossible. 

Mycroft’s eyes locked onto him again, and Greg felt a shiver run down his spine. There was a depth in those eyes, something unspoken. So often, it felt like Mycroft was reading his thoughts, peering into places he wasn’t sure he was ready to let anyone see.

"You seem... uneasy," Mycroft remarked suddenly, his tone almost too gentle. "Am I mistaken in thinking you’re far more comfortable in your professional role than in this one? I feel I should apologise for...causing distress." 

Greg blinked. The bluntness. The truth of it all. He didn't have a chance to respond before the waiter appeared, delivering a second coffee and a menu for Greg. Mycroft smiled politely at the interruption, but Greg couldn’t shake the feeling that Mycroft had seen through him completely. And immediately.

When the waiter left, Greg dropped his hands to the table. “You’ve got me there,” he admitted. “I don’t date often.”

Mycroft froze in his seat. “Date?” he repeated.

For a moment, they sat staring at each other. The simple revelation had thrown off the careful rhythm Mycroft had been maintaining. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, his fingers still tapping lightly on the edge of his mug as though trying to centre himself. His grey eyes scanned Greg's face, as if searching for some sign that he was joking.

"Yeah, I mean... isn’t that what this is?" Greg shrugged, feeling a heat rise to his cheeks. He didn't normally stumble over his words, but with Mycroft’s gaze trained so intently on him, he was becoming increasingly unhinged. "I thought this was a... a social thing. Just us, getting to know each other a little better. Over some food. Maybe..."

Mycroft remained eerily quiet, his lips pressing together in that familiar, contemplative line. He wasn't frowning exactly, but there was something inscrutable about the way he was looking at Greg now. The seconds stretched out, heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Greg shifted uncomfortably, feeling the pressure of Mycroft’s silence bearing down on him. What the hell did I just do? he thought to himself. He thought he'd been clear, but perhaps not. 

Finally, Mycroft spoke, his voice calm, but with a note of something Greg couldn’t quite identify.

“I hadn’t realised.” Mycroft paused, his eyes flicking to the basket of bread in front of them before meeting Greg’s gaze once more. "I must admit, I had not let myself hope.”

“Hope,” Greg breathed.

“... a meeting, perhaps to discuss matters this week." He leaned back slightly, as though contemplating the situation with more seriousness. "For me to address my behaviour of late.”

“And are you going to?” Greg pressed, aware that he had, at some point, leaned forward in his seat. He was very close to Mycroft at the small cafe table; he could smell lemon, bergamot perhaps. But something else, too. Something more woodsy, all subtle and warm and incredibly polished. “Explain your behaviour?”

“I find that I have been a bit…distracted,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg let out a small, incredulous laugh, trying to ease the sudden tension in his chest. "Distracted? By what?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Mycroft’s lips quirked at the corners, his usual poise still intact. "By you," he said simply, the words surprising both of them, though Mycroft seemed oddly pleased with his own bluntness. “Not that you’re the only distraction in my life, of course. But that night at the party. That cigarette….I just. I had forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I shake many hands in my line of work, Greg.”

“Okay…”

“Those hands have never before woken me in the middle of the night.”

Greg blinked, taken aback by Mycroft's words. For a moment, he didn't quite know how to respond. He was accustomed to the reserved, controlled Mycroft, the one who spoke in measured tones and never gave away too much. But this—this was different. The statement was raw. Real. Unfiltered and unreserved. He leaned back in his chair, trying to process what Mycroft had just admitted.

"Wait, hold on," he said, a little doubtful, his brow furrowing. "Really?"

Mycroft’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile appearing before he masked it with his usual composure. "I realise that is not normal. In my defence, it was not just the handshake," he clarified, his voice quieter, more introspective. "There was something else, in that very short conversation, which clarified something I had already known. But I do apologise. I realise we do not know each other. That I have been acting…strange.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair and moved his mug to his hands. He paused, like he choosing his words carefully, but did not continue.

“If we are gonna get past that lack of knowing each other, you’re going to have to keep talking, Mycroft,” Greg pushed gently.

"You’ve been occupying my thoughts more than I care to admit. More than is wise."

Greg could feel his heart racing now, his palms suddenly clammy.

“At least you had actual physical contact to blame for you being off balance,” Greg said, exhaling the breath he’d been holding. “You sent me a notecard with your damned initials on it, and I haven’t quite been right since.”

Mycroft’s gaze flickered for the briefest of moments. He didn’t respond immediately, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his mug.

"Mycroft, I don’t—" Greg started, but the words caught in his throat, unable to form the way he wanted. He scratched his eyebrow and resettled himself in his seat. "Jesus. Okay. Enough. We are being weird. You are not making this easy. So, Mycroft, tell me a bit about yourself.”

Mycroft laughed, surprised by Greg's shift in tone. "I guess this has started to get a bit...Victorian, hasn't it?"

When he smiled again, it took over his face. It wasn't flustered or blushing, not shy or reserved anymore. It was the smile of a much younger man, one who had not yet been tied down into a job he could not give up, with a brother he could not control, in a country that he barely understood. Greg, who understood both sentiments intimately, grinned back.  

“I’m just not sure where to begin?” Mycroft admitted sheepishly. 

“Well,” Greg said, sitting back. "Let's see..."

He took a deep breath, cleared his throat. "I’ve been a DI for about five years now? Was a beat officer before that. Hated it. Shift work is not for everyone. Grew up right here in London - embarrassed by that if I’m honest. Haven’t really been much of anywhere. Seen the country, I suppose. And went on a lads trip to Spain once. My mum took us to Paris when I was a kid, but I don’t remember much about it.” 

“Paris is…both beautiful and overrated,” Mycroft declared. “You’ll definitely need to go back.” 

“Deal. Be better with company, I assume?” Greg added a wink, truly throwing caution to the wind now. 

“Indeed.” 

“And you?” 

“And me?” Mycroft murmured. “Well. I work…for the government, though that conversation is complicated. I was born in Edinburgh, but we did not stay long. Grew up in the North, but had a ridiculously expensive education to ensure we never sounded like it. And I am embarrassed by that. ” 

Greg grinned. “Don’t be. Your posh voice is pretty wonderful.” 

“You only say that because you don’t know how I can sound when I say 'ay up' or call you ducky.” 

Greg found himself gulping, the flirting so overt, so full of promising meaning that it didn’t matter if Mycroft had meant to do it; it was there, on the table between them. 

“I concede the point,” he growled. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I moved here after said schooling and got sort of stuck.” 

“By your brother or by your job?” 

Mycroft laughed. “You might as well ask me if the seed or the tree arrived first.” 

Greg smiled indulgently. The waiter arrived with their orders, disappearing after filling both their coffee mugs. Greg studied Mycroft’s duck tartine and his croque monsieur and laughed lightly at the fact that even their orders were in direct opposition.

“Tartine,” Mycroft said, pronouncing the French and beginning to neatly cut his crusty bread into smaller pieces. “Is an extremely obnoxious way to say ‘toast and beans’. But add duck to anything and I am sold.” 

Greg laughed. “Did you read my mind? I was just thinking how I’ve gone and mucked up the fancy French restaurant by ordering a cheese toastie.” 

“All things in London are simply variations of world themes.”

“How do you like it? Now that you’re stuck?” 

Mycroft smiled, seeming amused by the question. “London?” he asked. “It’s... complicated. Much like me, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Greg said quietly. “But still. Do you like it?”

Mycroft’s gaze softened for just a moment before he looked back at Greg with something more contemplative in his expression. “I suppose... I’ve learned to tolerate it. But I admit it does feel like home, even when it’s frustrating, even when it feels like it’s full of contradictions."

Greg nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. I’ve lived here my whole life. I can’t imagine being anywhere else, even though sometimes I think I should. But... there’s something about London that sticks with you.”

Mycroft’s smile returned, not quite as broad as before, but warm and understanding. 

Greg could feel the connection between them, quiet but palpable, like they were finding common ground that neither had expected to exist. 

“D’you know,” Greg said as he finished chewing a bite. “It’s been a very long time since I found a man attractive.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat, his hand momentarily pausing mid-air as he reached for his cup. The sputter had been more of a soft choke than anything else, but it was enough to make Greg's heart leap. Mycroft, flustered. It was a sight to behold.

"I… I beg your pardon?" Mycroft managed, his voice unusually tight, the slightest flush creeping into his cheeks. 

Greg grinned, completely unapologetic. "I said, it's been a very long time since I found a man attractive. I was married. To a woman. Just…I assume you already know that, but. Anyway. I’ve always been…."

Greg sighed. He did not enjoy talking about this. 

“I’ve always been attracted to all sorts. But it’s been a while. So this is surprising me, if I’m honest.”

Mycroft’s brows shot up, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Greg, I—" He paused, as though searching for the right words. 

Greg leaned back in his chair, watching Mycroft struggle with this shift in the conversation, taking a moment to savour the lightness that seemed to have entered the air between them.

"I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable," Greg said after a beat, though his voice was laced with amusement. "Just telling the truth. It’s been a long time, and I didn’t think it’d be you, of all people.”

Mycroft took a slow, deliberate breath, palms flat on the table as he tried to regain some semblance of control over the conversation. "I... see. I would like to be more poetic here, but honestly? Me too. Well, minus marriage and attraction to women." Mycroft suddenly paused, scrubbing a hand across his face and giving what could only be described as a giggle. "Goodness. This is more frank than I have been in a while.”

Greg cocked his head, his curiosity piqued. "Glad we are definitely on the same page,” he said. “I just feel that perhaps we are too old to be coy?” 

There was a long pause, the silence between them thick and heavy, but not unpleasant. Mycroft looked at him for a moment, his gaze far away. Then, finally, he let out a quiet exhale, a resigned sort of sigh. "I... I suppose you’re right. It’s just... difficult to step away sometimes, Greg. Especially when you know the stakes. When you understand the consequences of letting your guard down."

Greg softened at the honesty in Mycroft's voice. He knew that kind of struggle all too well—the constant need to be vigilant, to never allow oneself the luxury of weakness or distraction. But here, with Mycroft, there was a possibility of creating a small bubble of safety that they could both desperately use. A premature thought, for sure. But Greg had it. And it was…there.

"Well," Greg said, his tone gentle, "I’m not asking you to change everything. But maybe... just a bit more time, you know, without the weight of the world on your shoulders."

Mycroft's gaze flickered briefly to Greg's face before dropping to his mug, as though the words were not quite ready to leave his mouth. But after a moment, he met Greg's eyes again, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips.

"Maybe," he said softly, "maybe that’s something worth considering."

Greg smiled back, the connection between them deeper now, in a way that felt more solid than before. Whatever it was that had started between them—this strange, unspoken understanding—it was something worth exploring. Maybe Mycroft didn’t know it yet, but Greg was willing to take the risk.

“Dear lord, you are a human being! Raised in the North, sure, but still…nice to know.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a wry smile forming on his lips. "You might be surprised what I’m capable of when I’m not dealing with international crises or my especially tiresome brother."

Greg laughed, a genuine chuckle that felt light and free. "I think I’d like to see more of that, Mycroft."

By the time they had finished lunch, Mycroft was far less the calculated man everyone expected him to be and more like someone Greg genuinely understood. The connection, tentative but undeniable, was there, and maybe, just maybe, it was enough.

For the first time in a long while, Greg found himself not wanting to look away. And judging by the way Mycroft was watching him now, he didn’t think Mycroft wanted to either.

Chapter Text

Mycroft generally cursed the invention that was the mobile telephone. He’d been able to handle the carphone generation; the thing was bulky, unreliable, and only available in the car. It did not tether him to communication the way the stupid rectangle in his pocket did now. The Blackberry he carried with him even to the toilet was so encrypted that it was likely more secure than the actual nuclear codes. And yet, he had given that number to Gregory Lestrade, a man who had no governmental security clearance and whose background check did not extend beyond standard police protocol. Mycroft had not told anybody that he had done this, which was actually the larger security breach. He hadn’t thought it was going to become a problem, but the morning after their clumsy and entirely enjoyable lunch, a floodgate opened. 

It would seem that a stilted conversation, a sharing of mutual attractions, followed by chocolate croissants and an awkward hug goodbye, had been all the encouragement Detective Lestrade required. Mycroft awoke uncharacteristically late, having left the office after one in the morning,  to three text messages. 

Morning, Posh :) 

Have you seen this statue yet? picture blocked

Oh. Forgot. This is your work phone, isn’t it? Anyway, it’s just the new fourth plinth. Giant blue rooster. Walked to work this morning. Gorgeous out. Make sure you get some of this sun on that alabaster skin of yours, freckles ;) 

Even knowing that Greg was being sincere, Mycroft had had decades of people being entirely untrustworthy; many years at school where other boys had always taken the piss even if they did then take him to bed. Years after that being unable to express more than a slight fondness for the anonymous people he let into his life briefly before some disaster or other would convince him that he should just remain unattached. He had absolutely no bloody clue what to do with a man who was flirting with him while he was aware that they meant to be flirting. He almost talked himself into waiting until he could ask Anthea, was already in the shower when he realised that he was being a very large, very embarrassing coward. He stepped back out of the glass enclosure and shivered in the cool bathroom air long enough to pick up his phone and take a deep breath. 

Good morning, Gregory. A late morning for me - alas, it shall mean a late day as well. I promise to spend at least ten minutes in the atrium. Not many sunny days in your precious city in the middle of the winter. We must take advantage. 

He hit send before he could second-guess himself and stepped back into the shower. Only to step back out again a second later. He hit send a second time, trying not to overthink the stupid thing. 

:) 

Greg was mid angry emails when the ping came in. He rarely checked his phone during the day until it rang with the ‘urgent’ ringtone he’d had Lydia set up for him. Looking at his damn phone either resulted in more work or led to fights with his sister or Sherlock, so it wasn’t usually worth it. 

Today, however, he picked it up as though it was going to burn a hole through his desk. He’d put the phone in his contacts as MH , mostly because it had made him chuckle to do it given their conversation the day before. He’d sent his messages this morning without thinking about it much; he’d thought of Mycroft upon waking up, upon walking past the blue chicken, upon basking in the rare blue of a cloudless winter sky, cold and bright. So, he’d told him. It was a very Gregory thing to do and only after had he paused to think about whether or not he should have done it. Mycroft probably wasn’t exactly a text message sort of bloke, was he? Still. He didn’t regret it. Everyone could stand to know that someone else had thought of them. 

When the screen showed him a small smile, a gentle barb based on shared conversation, Greg’s spirits lifted further. He replied immediately.

Good. You could use more sunshine in your life - guess you’ll just have to keep *me* around, won’t you? ;) 

Stop winking at me, you knave. I am at work. 

You could have offered Gregory Lestrade a million pounds on December 1st to guess what he'd be doing over the next week and a half, and he'd still be just as broke as he was today—nowhere on that list would flirting via text with Mycroft fucking Holmes have appeared.

No, he sent back. No, I don’t think I will. 

Chapter Text

"Is there any way for me to like, show up and bring you coffee?" Greg asked innocently down the phone. It was hour three of talking to Mycroft on the phone, curled into a ball on his sofa and bundled into a blanket. He felt like he was in year six, talking to a girl he liked. 

Mycroft harumphed. "When? Now? I hardly think caffeine is the solution to the fact that neither of us can sleep." 

"No," Greg laughed. "I mean, during your day or whatever."

"You want to...bring me coffee. During my day." 

"People do, you know," Greg replied defensively. 

"People, yes. To me?" Mycroft sighed. "Never mind. I was being morose again." 

"Unsurprising. It's half-three, Mycroft." 

"Is it really? Fuck." 

Greg burst out laughing. "I have never heard you swear." 

"I swear," Mycroft insisted. "Just...rarely before midnight." 

"Well, gorgeous. It's hot. Guess I'm going to have to trap you in frustrating situations after midnight more often." 

There was silence at the other end of the line.

"Too much?" Greg asked quietly, recognising on this, the fifth day he'd spoken to Mycroft on the phone, when he'd pushed too far, when he'd let the flirting get to real, too tangible. He had learned to back off. Learned to back peddle to safer ground without asking, but it was getting frustrating to do it; they both knew what they wanted. They both knew where they were heading. He wanted to be able to make sexual innuendo, wanted to picture Mycroft blushing, and eventually wanted to see Mycroft Blush. "Sorry." 

"No," Mycroft replied urgently, seeming annoyed. "No, you should not be apologising. I am forty-five for crying out loud. I just...you say these things so easily. It's so simple for you to—to press that button. You're so...well, to use your word, Gregory, it's gorgeous. Your confidence. If I possessed even a gram of-"

"Oh fuck off," Greg chuckled. "You have more confidence than most men will ever even encounter. I've seen you lead a meeting, Holmes." 

"Not what I meant," Mycroft replied quietly. 

And while Greg understood, he wasn't letting him get away with that. It was too late, and he was too tired. Too flooded with affection and desire in painful, complex twists settling into his stomach. He wished he was there, beside Mycroft—wherever that was, exactly—so he could bundle him into his lap and smooth away the worry lines he imagined were securely plastered on his face. 

“Enough of that,” Greg said soothingly. “We all have our strengths, Mycroft. You’re just out of practice. Hey, where are you?”

“What?” Mycroft said, and Greg grinned when he heard a smile in the man’s tone. “I am at home.” 

“No. I meant, well…I’m on my sofa. Wrapped up in a rank old blanket that I can’t convince myself to get rid of because it’s too soft. I had tea, but that was two and a half hours ago.”

“Oh,” Mycroft replied softly. 

“You’re in your bed, aren’t you,” 

“I did not start here, but yes. I changed into…more comfortable clothing, some time ago,” Mycroft answered. His voice had dropped low, conspirational, as though someone was standing in his bedroom and would be scandalized to know that he’d put casual wear on.

“I can’t spend more than five minutes in my house in proper trousers,” Greg replied, hearing his own voice drop down several levels until it brushed against husky. “What did you put on instead?” 

Mycroft hesitated. “Do not laugh at me, you horrible man.” 

“I don’t think I could laugh at you if you wanted me to right now, Mycroft. I am far too turned on.” 

Mycroft sighed. “Striped pyjama bottoms. White t-shirt.” 

“Fuck,” Greg responded, unable to reach a volume above a whisper. 

“Only you would react that way to perfectly normal sleepwear.” 

“It’s not the sleepwear I’ve reacted to, Posh.” 

They were quiet for a moment; if he hadn’t known any better, he’d have assumed that Mycroft had finally fallen asleep. He cleared his throat. Mycroft inhaled deeply. 

“What are you wearing?” he asked gently, as though the words hadn’t quite been voluntary. 

“There you go, gorgeous. That’s the way,” Greg replied encouragingly. “Grey joggers. Henley.” 

“Your flat sounds too cold.” 

“That it is. Drafty.” 

“I put the fire on.” 

“Stop,” Greg groaned. “Are you trying to kill me?” 

Mycroft chuckled, but the sound had turned so very human. It was low, growly. Perfect. 

“Gregory?” 

“Hm?” 

“I think I need to try and sleep.” 

“Me too.” 

“I don’t want to hang up, though.” 

Greg grinned into the darkness of his flat. “Didn’t say you had to, darlin’. I’ll be here. Sleep.” 

Mycroft Holmes, who was the British Government, muttered something almost unintelligible that sounded very much like ‘thank you’. 

Chapter Text

It was late morning when Greg finally shuffled into the office the next day, his mind still buzzing from the night before. He hadn't expected to sleep at all after the phone call with Mycroft—his thoughts still tangled with the low murmur of Mycroft's voice, the teasing words, the tension building between them—but somehow, despite the attraction and desire, he'd drifted off, waking only when his blanket slipped onto the floor and left him shivering. 

His phone buzzed just as he was about to step into the building.

Good morning, Gregory. I trust you survived the night?

Greg grinned as he glanced at his phone.

Just about. Would've been easier if you'd been there to help me warm up the flat.

Mycroft's reply came quicker than he’d anticipated.

That sounds tempting. Perhaps I will take you up on that offer someday.

Greg snorted, fighting back a smile. As much as he liked their late-night banter, there was something different about today. It felt more... real. Like the words meant something more now, like the layers of flirtation were starting to peel away and reveal something underneath. He couldn’t deny it anymore—he wanted Mycroft.

The problem was that Mycroft was still Mycroft, and Greg was still Greg. Neither of them was particularly good at this kind of thing.

He pulled open the door to his office, hoping to scurry to his desk before anyone besides Lydia asked too many question. 

"Greg! You’re late," Anderson's voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him into reality very much against his will.

"Yeah, well, had an urgent matter to attend to," Greg said, throwing his coat over the back of his chair.

Anderson raised an eyebrow, tapping his pen against the desk. "Right," he said with a smirk. "Like that robbery case you’ve been working on?” 

Greg’s stomach sank. He hadn’t realized Anderson was paying that much attention. He tried to play it cool. "I have other cases.” 

But Anderson wasn’t letting it go that easily. "Ah, I see. I tend to worry when one of the lead DIs is late to the office and misses a visit from Sherlock bloody Holmes.” 

Greg chuckled. Sherlock seldom voluntarily showed up to the Met offices since he despised most of them, but Greg had been ignoring a message about an old case for several days. The problem was that he knew the second Sherlock even looked at him, he was going to know. This thing with Mycroft was too new, too delicate. He didn’t want to see the man; well, that was often true if he was honest with himself, but right now, it was for much better reasons than keeping his blood pressure in check.

Greg’s face flushed, but he forced a casual shrug. "Apologies, mate."

Anderson grinned knowingly. "Uh-huh. Well. He left the information on your desk, so it’s not really my problem.” 

Greg rolled his eyes. "Cheers, Anderson."

When Greg sat down at his desk, his phone buzzed again.

I have placed a clearance code in your pigeonhole. I was thinking about your offer from last night. Perhaps sometimes, having coffee at one’s office is an excellent plan. 

Greg couldn’t help but smile. Another wall crumbling, Mycroft physically letting him in. It was enough to make his stomach flip.

He quickly typed a reply.

I’ll bring the coffee, if you can promise an office empty of my coworkers.

The response came almost instantly.

I shouldn’t say, but I can have quite a lot done with and to your coworkers, should it become necessary. 

Greg barked in laughter.

Not necessary at the moment, but I’ll keep you in the loop. I can’t leave just now, considering I just arrived. What do you have on at 2? 

Coffee with a very dear friend :) 

Greg leaned back in his chair, a satisfied grin curling at his lips. 

At 1:30, Greg found himself pacing his office, tapping his fingers on his desk, unable to sit still. He didn’t want to think he was overthinking it, but his mind kept wandering back to the last few nights—their conversations, the flirtation, the strange mix of nervous energy and desire. Mycroft was under his skin. And this was only the third time he’d intentionally seen him in person. It was possible they had been talking too much. There was a weight to where they were now that was not going to be solved in Mycroft’s office. 

He attempted to leave subtly but Lydia looked up from her desk as soon as she passed him by and gave him a questioning look. He didn’t stop to explain. He just gave her a small smile and left the office, his heart pounding in his chest.

The elevator ride down felt like the longest one of his life, and by the time he reached the lobby, he was half-expecting to faint. Of course, the tension in his own head broke when he realised he had to go back upstairs and get the note he’d been left, sure he would not be granted entrance to Mycroft’s office without it. He laughed as he passed Lydia, who smirked at him.

“Just have a meeting. Forgot my notes,” he said as he rushed past her a second time. 

“Sure you do,” she said. She had no way of knowing what was actually happening since he’d made no mention of anything that had been happening to him, but still, he felt his cheeks heat. 

“See you in a bit, Lyd,” he said. 

With his heart in his throat, Greg made his way to Mycroft’s office, grabbing two fancy takeaway lattes and some biscotti as he approached, anticipation swirling in his gut. 

He was met by a formidable guard wearing an entirely black suit and carrying an AR-15, immediately reminding Greg that he was not waltzing into the offices of some five-named-law-suite round the block. He took a deep breath and held up the card Mycroft had left him. The guard nodded and stepped aside. 

“You’ll have to go through the metal detectors, just there,” he said gruffly, pointing to the large, unmissable machines to the left. “Get a badge.” 

Greg nodded in thanks and proceeded through the security checks required; he silently thanked his past self for leaving his credentials in the office. It would likely have made things more difficult. The final step of his interaction was the security desk person opening the takeaway cups and biscotti bag, and Greg had to bite his tongue before he made some coffee-based-quip or snide remark that would get him kicked out. Both were on the tip of his tongue anyway, so he silently accepted the badge he was offered and forced himself up to the lift he was directed toward. The ride was silent and contained three other people who had a distinct ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe. It was strange to feel out of his depths in this situation. It shouldn’t really be any different from existing as police, but it most certainly was. 

He passed through a second checkpoint, spoke with two more people behind desks who seemed determined to stop him, and finally found himself in a smaller, enclosed office space. A young woman sat behind a sleek desk, typing determinedly away at an expensive-looking laptop. She glanced up as he approached and beamed. 

“Oh yeah,” she declared. “I get it. Welcome. I’ll let him know you’re here, detective.” 

“Um. Thanks.” 

“Anthea. I forgot we haven’t actually met. Feels like I already know you. You ready for this? The office version of him, I mean?”

“Can’t be that different,” Greg grinned. “I think I’ll be fine.” 

Anthea grinned at him. “Oh, okay. Cocky. You’ll need that, if you’re going to see this through.” 

Greg’s brow furrowed quite against his will and her face softened. 

“For the record, I have worked for him for…a long time. I haven’t ever seen him like this. He’s lighter. Calmer. You’re…good for him.” 

“I think we might be good for each other,” Greg whispered. “Sorry. That. Sorry, that probably wasn’t appropriate.” 

“It’s okay,” she chuckled. “People tend to tell me things. I think it’s the face.” 

Greg laughed. 

“Do me a favour, though?” she added quietly. “Don’t, er, break him? He’s insufferable enough.” 

Greg smiled. “I will certainly try not to.” 

Anthea knocked on the door behind her but entered before Greg noticed any discernible signal to enter.

“Ah, Anthea,” Mycroft’s voice said from inside. “Can you please—” 

“Sir, you have a visitor,” she said, her tone taking on a different, professional lilt that seemed very unnatural and was likely not a part of her normal routine. “I’ll leave you to it. The paperwork can wait, Mr Holmes.” 

She winked at Greg as she turned away and Greg approached the door slowly, suddenly nervous again and glad that his hands were full of coffee so they had something to do. Mycroft sat behind an ostentatius desk. His hair was fully under control, gelled to within an inch of it’s life. In fact, everything about this version of Mr Holmes, with a capital H, was buttoned up and regulated, restrained to the point of looking uncomfortable. His spine, ramrod straight. His arms carefully placed on the desk, where he held a pen over a leather blotter. He wore a sour frown that was pinching his eyebrows together and ageing him. 

The scene shot through Greg like a particularly pesky lightning bolt and he broke. This rendition of Mycroft was not the one he’d been speaking to late at night. He knew if Mycroft spoke to him right now, he’d sound like the person Greg had met at cases first - too posh, too authoritative, cold - untouchable. 

Greg didn’t want Mycroft to be untouchable. 

Without letting himself think too much, he pounced. He took two strides into the small room, dropped the coffee on the desk before he leant across it, and without waiting for full approval, he latched onto the small hint of surprised permission in Mycroft’s gasp. Bracing himself on his hands, Greg leaned in and connected their lips. 

The kiss was brief but bold, and Greg could feel the tension melt from Mycroft’s rigid frame in an instant. The pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the leather blotter as though it too had surrendered to gravity. For a split second, Greg thought he’d gone too far—that this was a mistake, that it was too soon, too much—but then Mycroft leaned in ever so slightly, just enough for their lips to reconnect in a fleeting moment of shared resolution. His hands moved a moment later to grip Greg’s head, the kiss deepening in an almost desperate way. Greg held on, the overwhelming rightness settling over his shoulders like a mantle.

When they finally broke apart, Mycroft’s carefully constructed mask of authority had cracked wide open. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing uneven, and his steely eyes betrayed something raw—something vulnerable that Greg understood ran far deeper than the surface charm Mycroft wore like armour.

“Well,” Mycroft said at last, his voice still brushed by dry wit but tinged now with a breathless uncertainty that he recognised from midnight. “That... wasn’t in today’s agenda.”

Greg grinned, triumphant, feeling more grounded now than he had since stepping into the building. “Brought you that coffee,” he breathed, shifting a hand to brush across Mycroft’s chin.

Mycroft blinked as if Greg’s words had broken some unseen spell. His lips parted as though to deliver one of his usual razor-sharp replies, but instead, a soft, disbelieving chuckle escaped him. It was the kind of sound Greg suspected few—if any—had ever heard before. Mycroft Holmes didn’t laugh often; the world was rarely amusing enough to warrant it. But here he was, caught between bemusement and something dangerously close to joy.

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft murmured “Coffee. That’s why you are here, isn’t it?”

Greg raised an eyebrow, his grin unwavering. “That remains to be seen.” 

Mycroft exhaled a sharp, almost incredulous laugh, his fingers still loosely curled against Greg’s shoulders as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “I daresay it’s gone cold by now,” he remarked, but the words lacked their usual biting precision. Instead, they lingered in the space between them like a thread, tenuous but unbroken.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Greg said with a shrug, his voice low and warm, yet playful enough to coax a ghost of a smile from Mycroft’s lips. He stepped back just slightly, giving them both room to breathe—and to process. Though the air in the room still felt charged, Greg could sense the shift happening. Mycroft’s walls were already being reconstructed, brick by careful brick.

But not this time. Not if Greg had anything to do with it.

“I know you like things as under control as they can be,” Greg continued carefully, pulling a biscotti out of a bag. “But seeing you here, like that, so buttoned up. It just felt wrong. Needed to see that grin of yours.”

Mycroft arched a brow, the shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Grin? I'm not entirely sure what you mean, Detective Inspector. I don't believe such a thing is part of my repertoire."

Greg chuckled, breaking the biscotti in half with an audible snap before sliding one piece across the desk toward Mycroft. "Oh, you know exactly what I mean. Don't play coy with me—I’ve seen it. That little quirk you get when something amuses you just enough to let it slip. Maybe not for everyone else, but for me? It's there."

For a long moment, Mycroft simply stared at him, his expression unreadable. Again, Greg worried he might have crossed some line again—spoken too casually, put too much in the space between them too quickly. But then, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his posture loosening ever so slightly, and reached for the biscotti. He examined it as though it were an artefact from another planet, though he’d surely eaten many in his time.

“It’s what I noticed first, actually,” Greg concluded. “That night. At the party. I said Sherlock sounded exhausting. Threw me off completely that you did, in fact, know how to smile.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at him again. “Mean,” he concluded.

Greg laughed, deep and genuine. He leaned a little closer, resting his forearms on the polished edge of Mycroft’s meticulously clean desk.

“Not mean,” he corrected with a grin. “Honest. You could’ve walked away, chewed me out like you so often do with people. But no. You smiled, and maybe just for a second, I thought, ‘Huh. There’s someone under all that.’”

Mycroft didn’t respond immediately. He sat perfectly still, his long, elegant fingers brushing an invisible crumb from the biscotti as his expression shifted almost imperceptibly—like light glinting off the surface of water just before a storm. It wasn’t annoyance Greg saw there; it wasn’t even scepticism. It looked dangerously close to introspection.

“How very perceptive of you,” Mycroft finally said, his voice pitched low and so sad that Greg's heart clenched. “People usually don’t stick around to find that out.” 

Greg frowned. That expression, the one seeped in melancholy, was not going to do. 

“Alright. Your office is very nice and everything, but we need new provisions. Do you have time?”

Mycroft smiled, small, tentative. “Absolutely not. So lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock did not even turn around before shouting “Out!” at Greg's entrance to 221b.

“What, Sherlock! You asked him to come!” John called as he left the kitchen. “Hi, Lestrade.” 

Sherlock scoffed. “That was before I knew he would bounce all over my case. Now I see him, I need him to leave. He’ll only disrupt the process.” 

Greg, who was standing perfectly still with not a bounce in sight, just shrugged at John's questioning look. 

“What are you on about, Sherlock,” John sighed. “He’s been funny all week, ignore him. Cuppa?”

“Please,” Greg said, settling himself into the chair across the fireplace and ignoring Sherlock’s drawn brow and sullen expression as he did so. 

“So, I see you’ve gone through with it, have you?” 

“What are you on about, mate?” John sighed, bringing Greg a cup and settling on the settee. “Let the man get on with the case. He’s got…well, you know, things to do.” 

Sherlock scoffed again, the sound affected and full of indignation. “Yes, John. Like socialise with my brother.” 

This made Greg snort out loud; Sherlock when disgruntled was usually not quite so comical.

“Come off it,” he insisted. “You’ve spoken to him, then?”

“Last week, but that was before your what…two? No, three dates. And at least one of those taking place past midnight.” 

“Ridiculous, you can’t possibly know that you fiend.”

“And yet I am correct.” 

Greg, ludicrously, knew he was blushing and he buried his face in his tea for a moment. “Well, past midnight was only a phone call.” 

John sat up suddenly. “Wait, wait, wait. Is he serious? You’ve been…um, seeing…Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?” 

“Know many Mycroft’s, Dr Watson,” Sherlock teased. “Just go, detective. I simply can’t work like this. With all this…” He waved his hand in Greg’s general direction. “Happiness around me.” 

“Well, if you stopped unnecessarily deducing all over my personal life, we could get on with the case you've apparently called me here for - thanks for that, by the way. I'll be dealing with Anderson for weeks,” Greg pointed out. 

"What does that matter," Sherlock said sulkily. "It's not like he's your minder. He's an idiot." 

"Hey now, I thought you were getting on better with him." 

Sherlock shot him a sharp look, but Greg remained unflinching, sitting comfortably with his tea as if the entire conversation hadn’t turned entirely awkward. John, sensing the tension, shook his head with a grin, trying to move things along.

“Alright, enough...whatever this is. We’ve got a case to crack, right?” he said, tapping the folder in his hand as he looked between them. “update him, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to the case files he had spread across the coffee table, and he gave a half-sigh, half-sniff of disdain. “Right, the case. Missing people, but as far as I can tell, not just any ordinary disappearance. Someone with far more connections than they should have—feels like there's a ittle conspiracy, perhaps."

"Wonderful," Greg deadpanned. "What do you need?"

"Access to CCTV. And finger prints. Police things. And who do I have to deal with?” He glared at Greg dramatically, not even waiting for the detective inspector’s response. “Lestrade. The walking disruption.”

Greg chuckled softly, more amused than anything else. “It’s not as strange as it sounds," he said to John. "Mycroft and I have… more in common than you might think.”

John smiled kindly. Sherlock scoffed again, throwing his hands in the air.

“This is absurd! He’s barely human. The man is an automaton who practically ruined my childhood.”

Greg just chuckled again. “We’re not talking about your childhood, Sherlock.”

John pointedly cleared his throat. “He is right that anything going on outside the case isn’t exactly your business, Sherlock."

“Right,” Sherlock muttered. “Let’s get on with it, then. Mycroft can have his fun with Lestrade and we will deal with picking up the pieces of the disaster it causes later, after this case is solved.” 

Greg, still enjoying the usual tension between them, leaned back in the chair with a smile. “I’m here to help, after all.”

And with that, the case moved forward—almost as if nothing had changed. Greg was not surprised at Sherlock’s reaction. The man didn’t exactly do change. What was confusing, however, was the disconnect. He didn’t know either Holmes brother well enough to know where the tension between them came from; he didn’t know anything about Mycroft’s childhood, didn’t know how or why Sherlock had decided to paint him a villain. It wasn’t concerning, considering he and Sherlock only got on as professional acquaintances about half the time to begin with. Their friendship had a necessary and comfortable rhythm of mutual frustration, defence to his superiors of the unusual casework, followed by months of wishing he could just never speak to Sherlock Holmes again.

He knew that should this experience with Mycroft continue, that would likely change. He’d seen Mycroft worry over his little brother; he’d seen him go to great lengths, in fact, to ensure that the man was safe, secure, alive. At least some of that care and concern was necessary, based on what little he knew of Sherlock’s extracurricular habits. The rest was some deep-seated anxiety that he was suddenly desperate to tease out of Mycroft,  absolutely needed to understand better, if only to drag out more humanity from the deepening mystery that was Mycroft Holmes. 

Sherlock cleared his throat as they all stood to head out to the scene. John had already started descending the stairs, did not look back. Greg turned to see what the fuss was. 

“Needless to say,” Sherlock said lowly. “I disagree wholeheartedly with trying something as pedantic and tedious as attempting to make Mycroft act like a regular boyfriend. But. Should you do anything to make him even more insufferable to live near, I would like you to remember that I have access to a great many murderers and thieves.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. 

“Whose existence I can neither confirm nor deny,” Sherlock concluded before throwing himself in his lilting run down the stairs after John. 

“This fucking family,” Greg sighed to the empty flat before following. 

Mycroft picked up the phone on the first ring. He probably should had been more aloof, at least attempted to make it seem like he hadn’t been sitting in his living room at eleven at night waiting for the phone to ring. 

But then, that would be a game; he wasn’t playing games. That was Sherlock’s speciality, not his. He was far too old to be playing games.

“Holmes,” he said — he was, after all, still him. Any number of people could be on the other end of this line. 

Well. No. Not any number of people. Five people, six if certain people were back in the country. But the point was. Propriety. Or. Something. 

“Hiya, you,” Greg said warmly. “How’s your day?”

“Tedious,” he answered, smiling nonetheless, feeling his body sink slightly into the chair as he did. Muscles relaxing. “As usual. Yours?”

“Well, you’ll never guess who now knows about you and I.”

Mycroft’s grin lifted further, quite against his will. “He already knew, but it is interesting that he let you believe he’d deduced our connection. What an insufferable tool he can be.”

“Mycroft, that is your brother. Wait. He already knew?”

Mycroft sighed, realising he was going to have to fess up and already miserable for it. “He may have…already had an idea, before the party. Then I saw him a few days after. We can talk about it at great lengths if you’d like. Or I can tell you about the idea I’ve had for a proper date.”

Greg chuckled, the warm sound coming through the phone line. "A proper date, eh? And here I thought our coffee rendezvous were quite proper already."

"They were... adequate," Mycroft replied, his tone softening. "But I find myself wanting to offer you something more... substantial."

"Oh?" Greg's interest was clearly piqued. "Do tell, Mr. Holmes. What grand plans have you concocted?"

Mycroft cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a touch nervous. "Well, I was thinking... perhaps dinner. At my home. I could cook for you."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, and Mycroft felt his heart rate quicken. Had he overstepped?

"You cook?" Greg finally asked, sounding both surprised and delighted.

"I do," Mycroft confirmed. "It's a... hobby of mine. Good for the nerves.”

“Oh, my,” Greg growled. “Well, now that I know that, I may never sleep again until I see you in an apron.”

Mycroft chuckled softly, the rare sound almost foreign even to himself. "An apron, Inspector? How remarkably domestic of you to imagine. I assure you, I do not need such... accessories."

"Shame," Greg teased on the other end of the line, clearly enjoying himself. "I had this whole image in my head—white apron, sleeves rolled up, maybe a dab of flour on your nose. Very... picturesque."

"I'll try not to let my disappointment in your imagination cloud my judgment of your character," Mycroft replied dryly, though his lips betrayed him with the twitch of a smile. "Shall we say Thursday evening then? Eight o’clock?"

Greg hummed thoughtfully. "Hmm, can't let that go without saying yes. Thursday it is. But Mycroft?"

“Hm?” Mycroft replied, a bit lost in the imaginings himself.

It was late and he was tired. The masque of his life, the trappings, were getting easier and easier to remove. Each time Gregory Lestrade teased him, and cajoled him into flirting back, he found it harder and harder to brick himself back into his careful walls.

"Just... don't go to any trouble, alright?" Greg's voice softened. "I'd be happy with takeaway and your company."

Mycroft felt a warmth spread through his chest at Greg's words. "Nonsense," he replied, his own voice gentler than usual. "It's no trouble at all. I... I want to do this for you."

There was a pause, and Mycroft could almost hear the smile in Greg's voice when he spoke again. "Well, in that case, I'm looking forward to it. Should I bring anything?"

"Just yourself," Mycroft said, then added with a hint of playfulness, "And perhaps your imagination. We'll see if we can't improve upon that apron fantasy of yours."

Greg's laugh was rich and warm. "Oh, I like the sound of that. Alright then, it's a date. Thursday. I can hear how tired you are, Mr Holmes. Go. Get some sleep. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Chapter Text

By Thursday, Mycroft was fit to be tied. He’d called Anthea into his office at 2 o’clock to inform her he was leaving for the day. He simply couldn’t sit still any longer. He’d gotten most of what he needed to do finished, and so begged not to be disturbed for anything less than an orange-level threat. She’d just grinned at him knowingly and put his phone on the fancy ‘essentials only’ setting that he could never seem to find on his own, then shooed him from the building with his umbrella and an order to buy a bottle of palatable wine — “Under £50!” she’d called after him at the door. 

This order of events had made him even more anxious, and he jumped when his phone buzzed in his pocket while he stood in front of a vintages display at his local shop. He sighed, hoping against god that this wasn’t about to ruin his selection. Instead, the name Detective Lestrade flashed, and the indicator light flashed a bright cheery blue that he did not recognise. Anthea had allowed Greg through her fancy protocols. Likely well before he'd known he needed her to, if he knew her at all. He unlocked his screen and scrolled to the message.

Am I allowed to demand casual clothes for tonight? I mean, at least no suits. 

He grinned foolishly and hooked his umbrella on his arm so he had both thumbs free to text. 

Believe it or not, I had not planned to attempt to cook prime rib in three-piece Italian silk. 

Christ, Mycroft. No need to do all that. I’m just me. 

Don’t stress, Detective. I shall see you at 8. 

Mycroft really did love to cook. He had not exaggerated. Something about the simple pleasure of chopping, measuring, sifting, beating. Completely in control and completely free at the same time.

He tied his brand new apron on with an ease that settled his mind, the cotton of the t-shirt he wore beneath both elegant and liberating. He could see what Greg meant about suits; he perhaps spent too much time buttoned up. The kitchen gleamed, every surface immaculate and ready for his culinary routine. Mycroft's eyes swept over the ingredients laid out before him: the prime rib, a masterpiece of marbling; fresh herbs, their aroma already perfuming the air; and a bottle of rich, red wine, breathing in a carafe, ready to complement the meal perfectly.

As he began to prepare the rub for the meat, Mycroft's mind wandered to the evening ahead. The Detective—Gregory, he really must start thinking of him by name instead of title—would be on time, of that he was sure. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth as he recalled their earlier exchange. Gregory's casual demeanour always managed to both irk and charm him simultaneously.

The knife moved swiftly under his capable hands, reducing garlic and rosemary to a fine mince. He could already envision Gregory's reaction to the meal. Nothing would be a simple bite. Nothing would be ignored. Gregory was a man who used every sense. It was truly a crime against humanity that he ever experienced things that were not the height of every human sensation; if Mycroft could arrange it, Greg, whose face opened at beautiful things to the point of it being nearly painful, would only ever smell good smells, see gorgeous sights, hear beautiful music, and touch soft, luxurious fabrics. Gregory was the kind of man who could find poetry in the flicker of candlelight or the sound of a well-composed symphony.

Mycroft couldn’t help but admire the way Greg experienced the world so fully, as though his every moment was a kind of discovery. He was always so present, so aware, so open to everything life had to offer.

He made Mycroft feel like he’d been wasting his life. The realisation should have been painful, but it wasn’t. Instead, it simply made him want to walk more fully through the next chapter of whatever this was becoming — if Greg’s ability to see every flaw and every perfection as part of the greater whole, to embrace it all without hesitation, could be extended to Mycroft, then he truly didn’t know what else was possible in the world. 

“Jesus Christ, Mycroft,” he chastised himself, out loud, unabashed in the otherwise quiet kitchen. “Steady on, man. It’s only dinner. You are going to have to calm down. You’ll embarrass yourself.” 

Aware that the voice he'd used to admonish himself sounded an awful lot like Sherlock, he switched on the stereo before the sound of his own thinking destroyed his calm. Mahler drifted into the room, and he rolled his shoulders and continued. 

He added a drizzle of olive oil to the pan, the sizzle cutting through his thoughts. The aroma that blossomed from the heat when the minced herbs were added was a thing of beauty, and it filled the room with warmth. He smiled. 

This was going to be fine. 

Greg's eyes slid closed as the meat practically dissolved into butter on his tongue. The sound he made was indecent and Mycroft was privately pleased they were at his house. Not because of embarrassment, but because it meant he got to be the only one to hear it. He was, not so secretly, quite a jealous man. Greg had arrived, as promised, in simple but neat attire; a green henley, grey jeans. He wore only socks, having shed his shoes at the door. He looked so at ease here, so at peace. 

"Good?" Mycroft asked, his voice low and smooth as aged whiskey.

Greg nodded, eyes still closed in bliss. "Bloody amazing," he managed after swallowing. "What is this? I've never tasted anything like it."

Mycroft's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Nothing all that fancy, honestly. Prime rib, which I suppose is not a Thursday cut of meat, in fairness. Still. Otherwise, it’s just a standard English preparation that would be the shame of every Frenchman. I haven’t cooked in a very long time.” 

Greg's eyes flew open, a mix of surprise and something deeper, more intimate, flickering in their depths. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble. I meant that."

"Oh, but I did," Mycroft purred, leaning forward slightly. "I find I quite enjoy... indulging you."

The air between them crackled with tension; Greg's breath hitched, and Mycroft's gaze dropped to his lips, watching as he held a private smile that Mycroft would always carry carefully. When he looked back, up, Greg's cheeks were flushed, the gorgeous rosy tint spreading across his face as he held Mycroft's intense gaze. 

"Indulging, eh?" Greg's allowed, barely above a whisper. "I guess I could get used to that."

“Good,” Mycroft said simply, cutting himself a piece of meat, content now that Greg was enjoying himself. 

They finished the meal in pleasant conversation. Things never strayed too far from propriety but Mycroft was so far off-kilter, so far down the road of desperate admiration for this man, that his stomach flipped every time Greg laughed his signature little chuckle, every time he reached across the table to gently hold Mycroft’s hand between bites, his thumb pressing gentle circles across his knuckles like he was barely aware that he was doing it. 

Mycroft was sunk; the trick was going to be not letting that particular fact enter the conversation prematurely. He’d learned, through difficult trial and significant error, that most people did not fall in love within mere weeks. He had never been able to decide if it was his brain’s particular pathways that did it — if the powerful sense of logic he possessed took him down every eventuality of a relationship immediately, thereby making him feel a stronger connection than most in a much shorter amount of time. Either that or he was simply a hopeless romantic.

Since that reality was neither reasonable nor comfortable, from a purely intellectual standpoint, he resolutely refused to believe option two. But Still.

The gentle teasing, the casual affection, the familiarity that Greg brought to every exchange—it was too much. Mycroft’s pulse was still quick from the proximity, his chest tight with something he didn’t quite know how to name. How was it that Gregory, so effortlessly, made him feel as though his every thought was irrelevant, that nothing in the world mattered more than the way he was being studied at every moment? 

When he came back to the conversation, it was because Greg had released his hand and was about to stand. 

“Lost you there for a moment, Posh,” he said, smiling fondly and pointing to the wine. “Just going to wash up right quick. Meet you on the sofa with the rest of that?” 

Mycroft blinked, his thoughts snapping back into focus. He had allowed himself to drift into the comforting warmth of Gregory's presence for just a moment too long, had lost the soft touch of his thumb and the sound of his voice.

“What? No, I insist that you are not allowed to wash up,” Mycroft said superciliously, aware that his tone had taken on a tinge of the cold bureaucrat that he was trying not to invite here. 

Greg merely laughed. “Alright,” he said. “Steady on mate. No need to get all authoritative. Are you sure, though? Wouldn’t be a problem. You did all this work for me. Wouldn't mind returning at least some of the favour.” 

“I…well, I already cleaned the kitchen from my use of it and I…” 

But he found he could not continue. 

“You have fucking staff, don’t you?” Greg said, teasing and light. Mycroft felt his face heat beyond all reason as he nodded hopelessly. “God, so hot. Doesn’t even know it. Alright, fine. No washing up. But I assume no one is going to lose their jobs if I clear the table?” 

“No,” Mycroft squeaked, closing his eyes tightly. “No, that would be…thank you.” 

"Don't ever let my mother find out I let someone else clean up after hosting me," he said, lifting both plates as he stood.

Gregory gave him one last playful glance before heading toward the kitchen. Mycroft exhaled slowly, attempting to steady himself. He needed to regain some semblance of control. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Gregory was a brilliant man, an entirely different kind of brilliance than his own, and Mycroft was completely captivated by him. Moments like this, when his composure felt distant, were dangerous. His brain kept warning him about the possible consequences that came with vulnerability. 

‘Posh’ Greg had said, the nickname rolling off his tongue as easily as everything else he said. That was another thing Mycroft couldn’t stop thinking about. The simplicity of the gesture and its intimacy make it seem as if Greg could take one look at him and immediately know the deepest parts of him.  Mycroft leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. 

A moment later, Gregory returned a gleam of amusement in his eyes when he noticed that he had not moved. He paused at the table, meeting Mycroft’s gaze. 

"Careful there," Greg said, chuckling. "I might have to start charging you for the mental real estate I’m taking up there. You alright?"

Mycroft blinked, feeling a flush creep across his face, but he didn’t look away. "I don’t know what you mean," he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the flare of heat in his chest.

Gregory’s smile softened, though his eyes held something deeper. "You’re a terrible liar. You get all serious."

He uncorked the wine and poured them another glass before lifting both his glass and the bottle and walking away, his sock feet silent on the hardwood. He moved like he’d been here a thousand times, like he knew where he was going. Which was ludicrous of course.

Mycroft’s hands clenched around his glass, trying to steady the storm of emotions swirling inside him. 

“Left,” he called out, lifting his own glass to follow Greg to the sitting room. 

They sat at two ends of the large leather sofa, sipping in the dim room. Casual, intimate. Calm flooded through Mycroft in a way that rarely made it to the first layer of his awareness. He settled into the sofa more intentionally before looking at Greg sidelong. 

“I could turn the fire on. Anthea made me install electric last year. Something about not being home often enough to clean out a great Victorian floo every time I wanted some ambience,” he said softly with a smirk. 

"Go on, then," Greg grinned. “She seems like quite a firecracker.” 

“And indispensable,” Mycroft agreed, hitting the little button on the side of the table at his arm. 

The fire flared to life and washed them both in a soft, warm glow. He'd wanted to hate the little thing when it had first arrived, but as usual, Anthea had been right; it never had to be cleaned, felt as close to a real fire as he ever really needed it to, filled the room with warmth quickly but could be turned down without losing the flame. It was perfect.

“She seems quite defensive of you?” Greg pushed after a moment of staring at the little fake flame, a content and neutral expression pasted on his face. 

Mycroft smiled. “I find many of my staff are quite concerned with how much time I spend at the office. I suspect it’s less to do with my particular well-being and more to do with lieu time arrangements.”

“Oh, whatever,” Greg teased. “They like you, you big galoot.” 

The word caught him off guard and he laughed. Greg turned to him, head lolling back on the back of the sofa, legs crossed, one ankle hooked over the knee. The height of comfortable relaxation. It was hard to be cautious when Gregory was looking at him like that—like he could see all the way into Mycroft's soul and still somehow accept him. Greg was effortless, unburdened by the weight of his own self-awareness, and Mycroft found that both terrifying and utterly magnetic.

"Let’s not talk about me," Mycroft finally said, his voice a little quieter than he intended. He took a deliberate sip of his wine, grounding himself. 

Gregory leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling. "What do you wanna talk about then, good sir?” 

“What is it you are trying to avoid asking me?” Mycroft asked gently, swirling his wine. 

“God, you don’t miss a trick, do you, guv,” Greg smirked. “Not sure I’m allowed though. It’s about you again.” 

Mycroft froze, caught off guard but now too full of curiosity to let it go. “I’ll allow it,” he said finally. 

“I mean, you tell me if it’s prying. Detective's brain. I think of things and then it’s hard to let it go. Don’t mean offense.” 

“A familiar problem, mental sticking points. I am difficult to offend,” Mycroft promised. 

“Yeah, I guess both those things are true from what I know,” Greg said. “Well. I was just wondering about your childhood with Sherlock. And why….” 

He paused then, but Mycroft found he did not need the rest of the question. Greg had run into Sherlock just the other day; he knew precisely how that conversation had gone. He knew, therefore, what Greg was asking, what concerns he currently had.

“I remind you that I only have my side of things,” Mycroft began. “But. Our parents are quite indulgent. Lovely, impossibly loving. But lenient. I was the only one who put boundaries on him. He's never quite stopped resenting me for that. There's seven years between us, you know? 

“Older brother problems,” Greg sighed. “I’m the youngest, so I actually get it, but…in reverse?” 

“I would not have pictured you being the baby brother. Though, I am not sure how much validity there is in birth order. Still. I do understand what you mean. Sherlock means well. He loves me, in his way.” 

“That much is obvious. Threatened to have me killed if I made you more difficult to live with.”

Mycroft scowled. 

“Oh relax, Mycroft, it was lovely. He cares. He shows all care in a funny sort of way, but it’s fine. I’m used to him. He can’t scare me.” 

Mycroft sighed. “You’re kind to say.” 

“You can’t either, for the record.” 

For a long moment, Mycroft just sat there, feeling the pull between his instincts to remain distant, to maintain control, and the warmth of the invitation Greg had just given him. There was no pressure in the words, no demand. Just an offer, simple and free. Gregory was looking at him now, his eyes soft but amused, a glint of something playful on his face. At some point, very recently, he'd turned to face Mycroft, legs folded on the couch. He was leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the wine glass in his hand forgotten for the moment.

Mycroft let out a quiet laugh, trying to regain his composure. The idea that Greg wasn’t intimidated by him was at once disarming and intoxicating.

"Are you certain?" Mycroft asked lightly, his voice betraying none of the tumult inside. "I’d say I have a rather... formidable presence when I want to."

Gregory shrugged, the motion lazy but somehow full of certainty. "You’re posh," he teased, the word a playful poke that seemed to wrap around them both like an inside joke. "But you're not as scary as you like to think you are."

Mycroft felt a strange twist in his chest, something between gratitude and frustration, but he quickly masked it with a sip of his wine. It was one thing for Greg to dismiss his supposed power, quite another to be so unafraid.

"You say that now," Mycroft murmured, his tone betraying just a flicker of vulnerability before he shut it down again. “You have no idea what it will take to…truly…to be with me. I keep thinking of all the ways—”

"Well, maybe that's your problem, Posh," Greg interrupted, his voice warmer now, no longer teasing. His tone was something deep, dark, rich. Daring. "You think too much. It's like you’re constantly expecting the worst, so you’re ready to fight. But sometimes, you don’t have to plan for threat levels. Sometimes it’s okay to just be."

Mycroft froze, caught off guard by the simplicity of it, by how true it sounded. For all his calculated logic, his careful self-restraint, Greg’s words reached him in a way that felt almost like a revelation. Mycroft let the silence settle between them for a moment, the air in the room thick with the quiet weight of the conversation. Feeling quite unsteady, he put his wine down on the table by his elbow.

"That’s not how I’m built," Mycroft replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. "I don’t… I don’t let things just be. There’s always a reason for everything, Greg. And sometimes it’s easier to believe the worst, to stay in control, than to risk letting go."

Gregory didn’t immediately respond, but the soft sigh he released said plenty. "I get that," he said finally. "But control can’t protect you from everything. Sometimes the best part of life is the part you don’t plan, the moments you didn’t see coming."

Mycroft swallowed, feeling something twist inside him, but he couldn’t quite name it. It wasn’t discomfort, not exactly—it was more like an invitation.

"Maybe," Mycroft said, quieter than before, his voice uncertain for once. "Maybe you’re right. But I’ve spent so long managing things…it’s hard to let go."

Gregory’s smile softened, and he leaned back into the sofa, the air between them a little less tense. "You don’t have to let go all at once," he said gently. "Just let it slip sometimes. Like now. This moment. Don’t overthink it."

For a long moment, Mycroft just sat there, feeling the pull between his instincts and his desires. Until, taking a deep breath, he decided. Hands now free, armed only with a flexible, casual jumper and his nerves, he stopped thinking. He leaned forward until he was able to shift across the sofa, pushing Greg’s back into the throw pillows as he leveraged his body over him. He ghosted over Greg’s face.

“Not thinking anymore,” he whispered.

Greg's eyes widened in surprise, but the corners of his mouth quirked up in a pleased smile. "Good," he murmured, his breath warm against Mycroft's lips.

For a moment, they hovered there, suspended in the charged air between them. Mycroft could feel his heart pounding, could sense the heat radiating from Greg's body beneath him. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

With a soft exhale, Mycroft closed the distance between them. His lips met Greg's in a fierce, urgent collision of lips. If this was how he was always allowed to kiss Greg — raw, unplanned, and utterly intoxicating — he could die tomorrow a happy man. Greg responded immediately, one hand coming up to cup Mycroft's cheek, the other settling on his waist. He kissed back with an urgent, relentless energy that was quintessential detective inspector. Mycroft let his body slide down onto Greg, until they rested together, flush against each other, limbs tangled and breath mingling. The kiss deepened, and Mycroft felt himself get lost in the sensation, all his carefully constructed walls crumbling yet again under Greg's touch. His hands roamed over Greg's chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath his fingers.

When they finally broke apart, both men were breathing heavily. Mycroft looked down at Greg, taking in his flushed cheeks and slightly swollen lips. A surge of possessiveness washed over him, followed quickly by a flutter of anxiety.

"Was that... alright?" Mycroft asked, his voice rough and insistent.

“Don’t start thinking now, Mycroft Holmes,” he growled, pulling Mycroft back to him just as he’d started to catch his breath.

Mycroft hadn’t, for lack of a better expression, made out with anyone since year ten. This messy, desperate, grinding sort of thing that went everywhere and nowhere at the same time. His body was electrified, his chest tight, but he made no move to change their direction, to push things forward. For whatever reason, this was all they needed right now. This was where they’d needed to be for weeks. Months. Possibly a decade. Mycroft felt himself melting into it, his usual iron control slipping away as he lost himself in the sensation of Greg's mouth on his, Greg's hands roaming his body.

Time seemed to lose all meaning as they kissed and touched, exploring each other with an urgency that belied their usual composed exteriors. Mycroft's hands found their way under Greg's shirt, tracing the warm skin of his back, while Greg's fingers tangled in Mycroft's hair, mussing it beyond recognition.

When they finally broke apart again, both men were panting heavily, their faces flushed and hair dishevelled. Mycroft looked down at Greg, taking in the sight of him with deep satisfaction. 

“Well, then,” Greg whispered, rearranging something on Mycroft’s head. 

“Indeed,” Mycroft replied, pulling himself upright and pulling Greg with him by the arms that still circled Mycroft’s neck. “It’s been quite a while since I thought that little,” he joked. 

“Then, I’ll consider myself deeply honoured,” Greg replied with a gentle laugh.  He glanced at his watch, his expression shifting from contentment to reluctance. "I should probably get going," he said softly, though he made no immediate move to disentangle himself from Mycroft.

Mycroft felt a pang of disappointment, but nodded, understanding. "Of course," he murmured, his hands still resting lightly on Greg's forearms. "Duty calls, I presume?"

Greg sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair. "Yeah, got an early meeting tomorrow. Can't show up looking like I've been..." he trailed off, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"Like you've been thoroughly snogged by a minor government official?" Mycroft supplied, his tone dry but his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Greg chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Exactly. Though I gotta say, you saying ‘snogged’ makes me want to immediately take back those words and see what other hidden private school boy talents you have hidden in your…vocabulary.”

Mycroft smiled, but he felt himself grow wistful and shy as he felt Greg pull back.

“Hey,” Greg said, quiet and fuzzy in the liminal space between their bodies. “Even if I leave right now, don’t you dare get back into your head. I’ll be back here on this couch as often as you’ll let me. Other places too. Soon. Okay?”

Mycroft nodded.

“We’re not…we aren’t in our 20s,” Greg said hesitantly. “And frankly, I quite like you. I tend to rush into things and…well, fuck them up immediately, truth be told. I’d rather not do that. Not this time.”

Mycroft felt a warmth bloom in his chest at Greg's words. He reached out, gently cupping Greg's face with one hand. "I quite like you too," he admitted softly. "And I agree. We should take our time. Do this properly. I’m not exactly adept at this, as I’ve explained."

Greg leaned into Mycroft's touch, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, there was a mix of tenderness and mischief in his gaze. "Properly, eh? Does that mean I should expect flowers and chocolates next time?"

“Absolutely not. You got fancy wine and expensive beef. You’re up, Detective,” Mycroft teased, reaching in again to nip at Greg’s lip.

Greg laughed, a warm, rich sound that sent shivers down Mycroft's spine. "Oh, is that how it is? Well, I'll have to put my thinking cap on then, won't I? Can't have you outdoing me in the romance department."

He leaned in for one last, lingering kiss before reluctantly pulling away. As he stood, he smoothed down his rumpled shirt, a futile attempt at respectability. "Right then. I'd better go before I change my mind and decide to stay the night, early meeting be damned."

Mycroft rose as well, his usual composure slowly reasserting itself despite his dishevelled appearance. "Allow me to see you out," he said, gesturing towards the door.

They walked together, the air between them charged with unspoken promises and barely restrained desire. At the threshold, Greg paused, turning back to Mycroft.

“I can’t remember the last time I had such a wonderful evening, Mr Holmes,” he said quietly.

“I was going to say the same,” Mycroft concluded.

Greg hesitated for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, before turning back to Mycroft one last time. "You know, I've been thinking..."

"A dangerous pastime, as we just discovered," Mycroft quipped, unable to resist.

Greg rolled his eyes but smiled. "Cheeky git. What I was going to say is, I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About not being adept at this."

Mycroft felt a flicker of uncertainty. "Oh?"

"Yeah," Greg continued, his expression softening. "And I just wanted to say, you're doing just fine. Better than fine, actually. You don't need to worry about that."

Mycroft felt a warmth spread through his chest at Greg's words. "I... thank you, Gregory. That means a great deal to me."

Greg reached out, squeezing Mycroft's hand briefly.

"Goodnight, Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, Gregory.” 

Chapter Text

The fact that December had decided to be sunny again was extremely disconcerting. She hadn’t explained to Mycroft why she was going to be late; that was a perk of the job that wasn’t often enough lauded. There were rarely questions asked over technically unreasonable requests. She had simply sent a text that said ‘In by eleven, tell me if you’d like lunch or coffee’, and Mycroft had simply replied with an okay. She’d walked over as a result of the weather but was regretting it slightly now. The sun was hiding a chilliness that was going to be hard to shake, and she really should not have worn a skirt. 

The building was larger than she remembered until she was standing at the doors. Then again, their offices were smaller than they should be. Anthea didn’t really remember to envision places as their physical selves. She instead formed a construct built on what suspiciously looked like importance. She did it to people too. Mycroft was shorter than she remembered him when she tried to describe him. It was a bad habit. It would probably get her in trouble one day. 

She wasn’t thinking of this trouble, though, when she marched up to the desk at the front of the office, phone in hand. 

“Lydia Churchfield?” she said coldly to the woman behind the desk. “DI clerk and administrative support for this section of the London Met Police? I need to speak with you. Is there somewhere more…private we can talk.” 

She looked around the room with unintentional contempt. She wasn’t judgemental, most days, but she could not imagine trying to work under the circumstances she saw and she felt bad for the woman she’d just approached. Behind her, a slow, grumbling buzz of police and various other officials moved from desk to desk, and the sound of chatter and paper shuffling and phones ringing set Anthea’s teeth on edge. 

The woman smiled a distant, frozen grin and stood, arms folded, assessing Anthea coldly. 

“Well. Madam,” presumably-Lydia sneered. “Seeing as you’ve just entered a police establishment, and presented me with zero credentials, connections, or other reasons for being here, I think we shall be backing up several steps before I have to have one of my very capable, non-civilian type coworkers ask the questions instead. Seem reasonable?” 

Anthea, who had been working for Mycroft for nearly a decade and had therefore had very few people question her in any way in a very long time, immediately realised her mistake. And while she should have clung to bolstered unearned confidence, she found herself floundering instead. 

“I—yes, um,” she began. “Apologies. Let me just…” 

She reached into her bag and pulled out her rarely used security badge, handing it over tentatively to the woman, who made her wait a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary before taking it. Probably-Lydia read through the short pass impassively, before handing it back over and breaking into a wide grin that transformed her entire demeanour. 

“I wondered when you’d be by, “ she said warmly. “Come, we can talk in there. Cup of something? Tea? Coffee? We may even have hot chocolate if Latimer hasn’t been in yet this week.” 

Anthea, finding herself slightly unmoored by both this rapid change in circumstance and the beauty of the dark set of curls she was now following through the crowded office, simply shook her head. 

“Just as well. Tea and coffee are both crap. Changed brands when they built the new office, plus I swear the water out of the new machine is never quite hot enough.” 

“It…is very loud. In here,” Anthea replied stupidly. 

“Eh, you get used to it. Lydia, by the way. Just realised I didn’t tell you you’d been right. Been working for him long?”

“Almost ten years.”

“Goodness. That’s a long time with one man,” Lydia said, winking and chuckling at her own joke. “I’m so mad at any one of them a lot in a week that I think I may have committed murder had I had only one bloke to focus on instead of fifty of varying genders.” 

Anthea laughed in spite of herself. “He’s not so bad. Usually, I can convince him I was right before he decides everything was his idea to begin with.” 

Lydia turned and smiled before pulling open a door to a small conference room on the wall.

“Now then,” she said as they sat across the table from each other. “I presume you’re here so we can figure out what they are going to do about each other?” 

Anthea’s mouth hung open for a moment too long for her to hide it. “Yes, actually. But. Um. No, that is exactly why I am here.” 

“Excellent. Tell me the plan.”

Greg had just left the office for the afternoon when a text bounced in; your presence is required at the Old Swan, Tottenham Road. 5pm sharp. 

Oh. Also. It's Anthea. Sorry.

He sighed. He was very tired. It had been an extremely long day and he was supposed to be freely going home early. But he was hardly going to ignore a text from Mycroft's assistant, and that reality alone was probably quite a problem. He spun on his heel and took himself fully in the other direction. He had just enough time to walk. 

He knew the pub well, though it wasn't exactly his usual; it had that faux Tudor roof that Greg despised and the intentional aire of a place that was upscale and trying to pretend it wasn’t. He wandered in through the first two rooms, noticing that the burgundy carpet was far too new and not nearly sticky enough before he heard his name from behind him. Turning, he found John striding toward him. 

“What are you doing here, mate?” John said jovially, sticking out a hand for a shake. 

Greg took his hand just in time to look up and see Sherlock and Mycroft discussing something at a table in front of a dart board; the conversation seemed innocuous enough, but Greg wasn’t foolish enough to believe their exteriors. They could be discussing anything from dog breeds to nuclear war, and they’d both still be standing there in tense, terse standoff, arms crossed and daring the other to break first. More important, though, was that Greg was now fully aware that he had been set up. The question was for what, exactly?

“John,” he said hesitantly. “What’s going on here.” 

“No idea, detective,” John replied, returning to the table and leaving Greg to follow. “I got a text this afternoon, and when I showed up, Sherlock was already here. Mycroft turned up two minutes ago. Seems suspicious, but then, when aren’t our lives just a wee bit of a mystery, eh? Grab you a pint?”

“Not just yet, thanks,” 

John shrugged and wandered off toward the bar. He approached the Holmes brothers cautiously and had not worked out what he was going to say when Anthea turned the corner with Lydia in tow. Her addition to an otherwise perfectly understandable collective threw Greg for a loop; Greg raised an eyebrow at the sight of Anthea, the ever-efficient assistant. Both women looked quite calm and unperturbed, but much like a conversation between Holmes', this meant basically nothing. Anthea was…well, Anthea, and Lydia was the most stalwart civilian he had ever worked with on the force. 

The sudden appearance of these two women at the pub, alongside the Holmes brothers, was enough to make the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck prickle. Whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. Mycroft may have a preference for his control over all situations, but this gathering was something else entirely—there was a strange undercurrent of purpose, a kind of tension that Greg couldn’t place.

Anthea offered him a polite nod as she made her way toward the table, Lydia’s gaze briefly flicking to Greg before she followed her. The air felt charged like something had been set into motion, and Greg was now an unwilling player in whatever game they were all part of.

"Greg," Anthea said, her voice laced with quiet authority, "I'm glad you could join us. Please, have a seat. We have matters to discuss."

Sherlock didn’t look up from the dartboard, but Mycroft slid into the chair next to his at the hightop. Greg could almost hear Sherlock’s silent commentary on the situation, the usual mix of annoyance and curiosity, barely veiled beneath his almost tangible disinterest. Apparently, neither of them knew why they were there either. 

"What kind of matters?" Greg asked, though he could already guess. 

John returned to the table, pint in hand, looking around at everyone. "Right then," he said lightly, as if trying to break the building tension, "What’s the mystery this time?"

Lydia, ever the enigma, leaned forward and smiled at Greg. "It’s not so much a mystery as it is a choice. The question is whether you’re willing to answer us or not."

That didn’t sit right with Greg. "Answer what?"

Anthea cleared her throat and Lydia rolled her eyes as she stepped back to stand beside her. “We realise this would be inappropriate in any other situation, since it’s only been a few weeks.” 

“Well,” Lydia interjected. “I tried to argue it was also inappropriate in this one, to be fair,” 

“BUT—” Anthea continued, glaring at Lydia. “We know you two very well. We know how quickly you both fall. And everyone will soon be…well, impacted. So, since we all know what’s going to happen here sooner or later, we just thought we’d. Um. Check.” 

“What?” Greg insisted when no one else spoke up. “Check what.” 

“What are your intentions with Detective Lestrade,” Lydia blurted. 

From his seat to Greg’s left, John sniggered so hard that he blew foam from his pint of Guinness onto the table. He boldly refused to back down from his giggle even when Greg glared at him, leaving him no alternative but to petulantly cross his arms and stare at each of them in turn. 

“I fear I must agree with Lydia,” Mycroft finally said coldly, his arms in neat lines, palms pressed lightly on his knees. “I am trying to imagine a scenario in which this conversation would be appropriate, and I am coming up blank.” 

“I should think the early 1800s should be coming to mind, brother,” Sherlock added helpfully, smirking at John and setting him off laughing again. “Pretty standard question when one took a lover.” 

“Sherlock!” Greg and Mycroft cried in unison, which just made all four of the others laugh. 

“We could just leave,” Greg offered haughtily. 

“They’ll only contrive a way to have us back here in a week,” Mycroft replied with a sigh. “We might as well explain.” 

“Oh really,” Greg huffed. “Go on then, Mycroft. What are your intentions with Detective Lestrade.” 

Predictably, Mycroft’s entire neck flared into a red blush and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Victorious, Greg cleared his throat. 

“What goes on between Mycroft and I is very much no one’s business. We have…begun to extend our…connection beyond work, and that is already more than you need to know.” 

“Technically, he said he was dating you the other day,” John declared, poking Mycroft in the back with a slightly tipsy finger. “Go on, Greg, tell him. He should know you like him properly.” 

Greg sighed, exasperated. “He does know I like him! And oh dear god, we both sound like year seven’s saying that. Lay off, John.” 

But Mycroft was smirking at him, had folded his arms in a strange mimic of how Greg was currently sitting, his eyebrow quirked in humour at the entire situation. 

“Ooo,” he said, very little tone in his voice. “You like me? You like like me?” 

“Okay, am I actually the only one who is not having fun here?” Greg practically shouted. 

Anthea cleared her throat. “I am very much not having fun either, Detective. Can I buy you a drink?” 

“Anything to get me away from this table,” Greg grumbled, his own face heating in frustration and slight embarrassment. He strode past her and stormed toward the bar at the back of the pub. 

When he felt her following him, he whirled on her, making her jump. Shoving down the guilt he felt at startling her he shouted, hands flying up against his will. “What possessed you? How could you think this was a good idea?! With Sherlock here! Explain. Now.” 

Anthea's professional manners faltered for a moment, her eyes widening at Greg's outburst. She quickly composed herself, glancing back at the table where the others were still engaged in animated conversation.

"I... I apologise, Detective Inspector," she said, her voice low and controlled. "It wasn't my intention to embarrass you or Mr. Holmes. I am just genuinely concerned about the potential ramifications of your... relationship."

Greg's anger deflated slightly, but he still glared at her. "Ramifications? What are you on about?"

Anthea sighed, leaning against the bar. "You must understand, Detective, that Mr. Holmes's position is... delicate. Any personal attachments could be seen as vulnerabilities by certain parties. We needed to assess the situation."

"Assess?" Greg scoffed. "By ambushing us in a pub?" 

Anthea sighed. “The pub was Lydia’s idea. I tried to dissuade her. I do not like that woman.” 

Greg smirked. “You just don’t know her well enough yet. Why involve her at all? Why bring Sherlock and John?” 

“Well, that’s where I was trying to get to. You’re going to require a security team. At the office. Well, and also at home. If this is to continue. Sherlock is here because he'll have to know soon anyway, since he just barges into both places. John is just...where Sherlock is.” 

Greg smiled at her, but her demeanour didn’t change. “Oh,” he concluded. “You’re serious.” 

“I did try and warn you. He’s not just some Tom you picked up at the club.” 

Greg chuckled. “Sorry, I was imagining Mycroft in a club.” 

She smiled at him but the expression was weary and he sighed, softening. 

"Look, Anthea," Greg said, his tone gentler now. "I appreciate your concern. I do. But I'm not exactly new to this game. I've been a copper for decades. I know how to handle myself."

Anthea nodded, her expression still serious. "I don't doubt your capabilities, Detective Inspector. But Mr. Holmes's world... it's different. There are threats you might not even be aware of."

Greg leaned against the bar, considering. "And Mycroft? Does he know about this part?” 

“Greg,” she said, sympathetically. “Greg that’s why we are having this conversation. He emailed me at three in the morning today, asking me to start the registration process for you. And I just. Well, I believe the modern way of phrasing it is, I panicked. And I apologise for that. But he’s never — never — requested a registration of a partner before. And it’s not an easy process. I needed to see your face, see his expression when I asked you. I just…I needed to know.” 

Greg ran a hand through his silver hair, feeling the weight of her words. "Right. So what exactly does this 'security team' entail? Am I going to have men in black suits following me around everywhere?"

A hint of a smile touched Anthea's lips. "You don’t have any follow-up questions about the more serious implications of being registered as a close personal partner of Mycroft Holmes?” 

“No,” he replied simply, meeting her eye with as much sincerity as he could muster. 

“Okay,” she said gently, patting his arm. “Nothing quite so dramatic. It would be discreet. You'd hardly notice them most of the time."

“Well, alright then. Let’s get it set up. I don’t want to be an added danger for him.” 

“You already are. You realise that, yes?”

“Oh, I know I am a vulnerability,” Greg answered as their drinks hit the bar. “That doesn’t mean I have to be his weakness. At least this way, we’re back on equal footing.” 

Anthea nodded, a look of respect crossing her face. "I'm glad you understand the gravity of the situation, Detective Inspector. Mr. Holmes chose well."

Greg felt his cheeks warm slightly at the compliment. He picked up his pint, taking a long swig before responding. "So, what now? Do I sign some official secrets act or something?"

Anthea chuckled, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Nothing quite so formal tonight. We'll set up a proper meeting next week to go over all the details. For now, let's just go back to the others before they start to wonder what we're plotting over here."

As they made their way back to the table, Greg noticed Mycroft watching him intently, a mix of concern and curiosity in his eyes. Greg gave him a reassuring smile, sliding into the seat next to him, reaching down on a whim to squeeze his knee.

“Everything okay?” Mycroft said, worry creasing his brow.

Greg reached out and, perhaps inadvisably given that Sherlock was holding a dart less than a metre from the table, smoothed the wrinkle between his eyes with his thumb. The action had the desired effect; Mycroft’s face broke into a shy, hesitant smile. 

Greg leaned in close, his voice low. "Everything's fine. Just sorting out some details with Anthea. We'll talk later, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded, visibly relaxing. His hand found Greg's under the table, their fingers intertwining.

"Well," Sherlock drawled, twirling the dart between his fingers, "if you two are quite finished with your clandestine whispering, perhaps we could return to the matter at hand?"

John snorted into his pint. "And what matter would that be, exactly?"

"The case, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. "The one with the missing poodle and the inexplicable trail of breadcrumbs!"

Greg couldn't help but chuckle. "Sherlock, mate, I hate to break it to you, but we're not here about a case.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said dismissively before launching into details that Greg neither cared about nor listened to.

With interest, out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Lydia — of quick wit, acerbic jokes, gorgeous hair, and deep caramel skin — unbalanced Anthea entirely. They were in an intense conversation in which Lydia’s head kept getting thrown back in laughter. Which was confusing since every time it happened, Anthea looked more and more worried.

“Mark my words,” he said lowly to Mycroft and gesturing with his beer. “That’s a pair to watch.”

Mycroft followed Greg's gaze, his eyebrows raising slightly as he observed the interaction between Anthea and Lydia. "Indeed," he murmured. "I've never seen Anthea so... flustered."

Greg grinned, leaning in closer to Mycroft. "Ten quid says they're dating within a month."

Mycroft’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Nonsense, Gregory. I never bet on certainties.”

Greg laughed, and without thinking about it too much, leaned in to place a small, chaste kiss on warm dry lips. John, from his spot beside Sherlock, whooped. When no one joined in, he pouted.

“You lot are absolutely no fun,” John grumbled, throwing another dart.

Mycroft's cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink as Greg pulled away from the kiss. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but the soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth betrayed his pleasure.

"Well," Sherlock interjected, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "now that we've all witnessed this touching display of affection, perhaps we can return to more pressing matters."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, there is no case. We're here to have a drink and relax. You know, like normal people do sometimes?"

"Boring," Sherlock declared, but there was no real heat behind the word. He glanced at John, who was still pouting slightly. "John, another round?"

Chapter Text

It was Saturday and while Greg knew that was not a guarantee that Mycroft was home, he decided to wield the address like a weapon and take his chances with the results. 

There was, of course, a guard there. There'd likely been a guard there the first time he'd been at this house, too. That time, he'd been an expected guest and there had been protocols allowed that he was not being granted now. 

“Is he in?” Greg asked pointlessly. 

“I know you are aware I can't give you that information, sir,” the guard said. Her face, however, quirked into something slightly more friendly that he was sure was counter to her training. 

“Yeah, but. Worth a try. Can I go up?” 

She just looked at him. He held his hands up in surrender, and pulled out his phone. 

“Good morning,” he said jovially when Mycroft answered. "Are you home? Excellent. Can you call of your hound? “

He winked at the guard who looked momentarily affronted, until she sighed and held a quintessential finger against her ear. 

“Yes, sir,” 

“No hard feelings, hey?” he said as he passed her. “Greg, by the way.” 

“Should I assume I'll be seeing you again?” 

“Yeah, actually. You probably should.” 

“Anna,” she allowed, slightly begrudgingly, though she smiled when she said it. 

He tipped an imaginary hat at her and mounted the stairs two at a time. 

Mycroft opened the door with a beatific grin that immediately made Greg second guess his reason for being here. Mycroft opened his mouth, presumably to greet him, and express surprise at seeing him, but Greg held up a finger. 

“Yeah, hold on, I'm actually a bit annoyed at you and I'm trying to decide how annoyed I am now that I'm seeing your stupid lovely face.” 

Mycroft immediately closed his mouth, eyebrows quirked and waited. 

“Why didn't you just tell me you wanted to put me in some registry? I could have handled that. Instead, you did it all weird and surreptitiously—at three in the morning, I might add,” Greg said accusingly.  “And it landed us in front of both our administrative assistants, your brother, and your brother's….” 

“I am never sure how to categorise John either,” Mycroft said quietly. 

They stood there looking at each other for a moment. 

“I am sorry that I —”

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg interrupted. “I'm over it. Are you home because you're free?” 

“For the moment,” Mycroft replied hesitantly. 

“Excellent. Go put warm things on. I want to show you something.” 

Mycroft came back wearing a lush navy peacoat of wool that looked expensive even at ten paces and holding several items in outstretched hands, looking distressed. 

“What do you mean by warm?” he asked, voice tinged with concern. “You’re only wearing a coat.” 

“I might have gloves in my pocket,” Greg said, smirking at the unfathomable adorableness of this human being. “I also have a hat, but it will have to be really, incredibly, arctic or Canada levels of cold before you see me wearing it. I hate hats.” 

Mycroft’s head tilted slightly, studying Greg. “Can’t see why that would be. There’s no way you don’t look like sheer perfection in a hat. I shall bring a hat and gloves then.” 

He traipsed back down the corridor to a well-hidden closet and stood in front of Greg again a moment later, buttoned up and ready to go, looking expectantly at him; Greg, for his part, had not moved. 

“What?” Mycroft asked, concerned again.

“I’m just…” Greg shook his head, and surged forward. 

Greg's lips met Mycroft's in a soft kiss, his hands cupping Mycroft's face. Mycroft froze for a split second before melting into the embrace, his own gloved hands coming to rest on Greg's waist. When they finally parted, both men were slightly breathless.

"What was that for?" Mycroft asked, a hint of wonder in his voice.

Greg shrugged, a lopsided grin on his face. "Just... you. Being you. Being perfect and infuriating and adorable all at once. I am sorry. At some point, I’ll get used to kissing you without it being close to an attack.” 

Mycroft's cheeks flushed pink, an increasingly common sight that Greg treasured. "I... thank you, I suppose."

"Come on," Greg said, taking Mycroft's hand and leading him out the door. "We've got somewhere to be."

They took a bus, though they likely could have walked, and it brought Greg no end of joy. He suddenly desperately needed to get Mycroft on the tube. He just looked so real, human, pedestrian, on public transportation. He needed to know, soon, if the unnatural phenomenon of a human Holmes extended into the subterranean mines of the other gremlin people. It was early evening, and though it was Saturday, the bus was packed with the pre-Christmas crowds. They stood on the first level as they weren’t going far; Mycroft stood stiffly, one gloved hand gripping the metal pole, the other clasped tightly in Greg's. His eyes darted around nervously, taking in the crush of bodies and the cacophony of voices pinging around the too-small space.

Greg leaned in close, his breath warm against Mycroft's ear. "Relax, lovely. No one's paying us any attention."

Mycroft's posture eased slightly, but his grip on Greg's hand remained firm. "I confess, I'm not accustomed to this mode of transportation."

Greg chuckled. "I gathered that. But it's all part of the experience."

As the bus lurched to a stop, Greg tugged Mycroft towards the doors. They emerged onto a bustling street, weaving through the crowd that had already managed to form outside the gates to Carnaby.

“The thing you wanted to show me isn’t the crime scene I stole, is it?” Mycroft asked, a tinge of worry colouring his attempt at amused wit. He was still gripping Greg’s hand, as though fearing that letting go would unmoore him. 

Greg laughed, loud and open. The cold air of the evening had unleashed a part of himself that he’d never grown tired of. When left to his own devices, and particularly at Christmas, Gregory Lestrade could often be considered an imp . He loved the delight of others. Wanted nothing more than to be among the crowds of people simply enjoying themselves. Throw in some mulled wine, Christmas carols, and lights, and he practically turned into a fucking Jolly Elf. It’s why it irritated him so much when people implied that he hated Christmas. He didn’t. He hated Christmas obligations . Those two things were incredibly different. 

“Shockingly, Mycroft, I did not come and get you at your home to tour you around a crime scene that never held any significance for me. It’s just coincidence that this thing is also in Soho.” 

They turned onto Beak Street and the press of people became the slightest bit more oppressive. It wasn’t yet to the point of being uncomfortable, but Greg was secretly pleased they’d come early. 

“Carnaby?” Mycroft smiled, indulging Greg in a squeeze of his hand. “The lights?” 

Greg grinned. “Sort of. Come on.” 

He wove through the people with a quick stride, hoping to reach at least the first three before it grew properly dark. Mycroft just moved along with him, studying people as they passed, a blithe smile pasted on his lips. When Greg reached the first one, he pulled them up short, grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders and turned him so he was facing it. 

“Tada!” he cried. 

“Um,” Mycroft replied. “What…what am I meant to be looking at?” 

Which was fair, in all honesty. They were stood in front of a trendy boutique of some type or another; Greg couldn’t be sure if they sold candles, loafers, or dresses, but it had one of those green-and-white awnings that he avoided like the plague, so he was never going to find out. 

“Oh, right, sorry,” he said, pointing down to the sidewalk and the grate against the building. 

Poking out from the gully to a basement window was a brass mouse; it was maybe a foot high, unpainted, holding a badly proportioned bottle of wine and wearing a tiny baret. 

“Is that…is that a mouse?” Mycroft asked, puzzled. 

“That, sir, is a Carnaby Christmas Mouse! One of seven. We’re going to find them all. That one is called ‘Pierre’, which I think may be slightly racist, but that’s okay. We will go get a passport if you want one. I can tell you all about them instead if you’d rather. 

Mycroft turned to look at him, and his face went through several emotions while Greg continued to beam at him. He didn’t care what Mycroft thought. Greg was going to be so insanely, simply happy about this that Mycroft would have no choice but to get on board. 

Mycroft's expression finally settled on a mix of bemusement and fondness. "A passport for... mouse hunting?"

"Exactly!" Greg's enthusiasm was infectious. "We get a little booklet and stamp it at each mouse. It's like a scavenger hunt, but with adorable brass rodents."

Mycroft chuckled softly. "Well, I suppose I can't argue with that logic. Lead on, Detective Inspector Mouse Hunter."

Greg's grin widened impossibly further as he tugged Mycroft along to the next location. The streets were growing more crowded as night fell, the Christmas lights twinkling to life above them. Greg navigated the throng with practiced ease, occasionally calling out apologies as he pulled Mycroft through tight spots.

They found the second mouse, ‘Cyril’, outside a bustling pub. This one wore a tiny top hat and held a mini stein. The stamp near his head wasn’t working very well in the cold, so it looked nothing like him by the time the blob landed on Mycroft’s passport, but he held it up with pride for Greg to see. By the time they’d found the fifth mouse, Mycroft had taken the lead and was calling out in glee when he found the next mouse. He’d turned into a veritable child, eyes sparkling with delight as he dragged Greg from one mouse to the next. The transformation was remarkable, and Greg found himself falling even more in love with this playful side of Mycroft he'd never seen before.

"Gregory, look! There's 'Eliza' with her little umbrella!" Mycroft exclaimed, pointing excitedly at the sixth mouse perched outside a trendy café. He fumbled with the passport, eager to collect another stamp. Mycroft's cheeks were flushed from the cold and exertion, his usually impeccable hair slightly mussed from their adventures. 

When they had finally found the last of the mice, Mycroft had stuck his hat on and Greg was incapable of keeping his composure much longer. The dark had set fully and the lights were creating an atmosphere of joviality and yuletide that Greg wasn’t sure he could bear. 

“Should we see if we can get near the White Horse for some mulled wine or cider, or do you need to get out of the people?” he asked Mycroft. 

“Mulled wine!” Mycroft said cheerfully, taking hold of Greg’s hand again and marching them back toward the pub. “How on earth did you find out about this?” 

Greg chuckled. “My nieces. Apparently, it was an art installation a few years back but people loved them.” 

“The lights,” Mycroft said, looking up as though to punctuate his point. “The lights have never been my favourite. They’re always lacklustre. I don’t love Soho at all, if I am honest. But this? This was delightful. Thank you for showing me.” 

Greg's heart swelled with affection. "I'm so glad you enjoyed it. I wasn't sure if you'd think it was silly."

"Silly? Perhaps. But in the most wonderful way," Mycroft replied, his eyes twinkling. "I can't remember the last time I felt so... carefree."

They managed to squeeze into the White Horse, the warmth and cheer of the pub enveloping them as they entered. Greg ordered two mulled wines, and they found a small table in the corner. Their knees touched as they sat close together.

Mycroft took a sip of his wine, sighing contentedly. "This evening has been full of surprises, Gregory. I never imagined I'd enjoy something like this so much."

"Well, there's more where that came from," Greg said with a wink. "I've got a whole list of Christmas activities lined up if you’re game.”

Mycroft's eyes widened with interest. "Oh? Do tell, what else is on this mysterious list of yours?"

Greg leaned in conspiratorially, his voice low and playful. "Well, let's see. We've got ice skating at Somerset House, the Christmas market at Leicester Square, and maybe even a trip to Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. Oh, and we absolutely must see the Christmas tree at Trafalgar Square."

"My goodness," Mycroft chuckled, taking another sip of his wine. "You've certainly put a lot of thought into this."

"What can I say? I'm a man on a mission to show Mycroft Holmes the magic of a London Christmas. We’ll figure out a part of this city you love.”

Chapter Text

Armed with a plan that involved making Mycroft spend less time in his office while miserable, while simultaneously annoying Anthea into seeing how wonderful Lydia was for her, Greg was extremely excited when he woke up the next day. Scheming was thrilling— particularly because Greg was a sucker for the adage ‘two birds, one stone’. He texted John begging for a favour. Still, he wasn't that surprised when his phone rang almost immediately after hitting send. 

“Christmas favours?” John said as soon as Greg picked up. “What the hell is a ‘Christmas favour’ and why do I feel like I’m already annoyed at you for them?”

“I only need you to…distract Anthea. A bit.”

“Anthea. Who once picked up, chewed, and spat my balls out at my feet with a simple look? That Anthea?”

Greg winced, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, that Anthea. Look, it's for a good cause. Operation Get Mycroft Out of the Office, remember?"

"I thought that was just a joke," John groaned. "You're serious about this?"

"Dead serious. Come on, John. It's Christmas. Where's your holiday spirit?"

"Buried under a mountain of paperwork and toddler tantrums, thanks for asking."

“Toddler?”

“Sherlock is on a case, remember?”

Greg chuckled. "All the more reason to help me out. A little scheming might be just what you need. Get you out of the flat."

"And how exactly am I supposed to distract Anthea? In case you haven't noticed, she's not exactly the type to fall for small talk and charm."

“Well. You see. I think she’s interested in Lydia.”

“Lydia, your assistant? Huh. I can see that.”

“Don’t let her catch you calling her that. She is far from my assistant in anything. But yeah. Her.”

John let out a long-suffering sigh that crackled through the phone. "So let me get this straight. You want me to somehow distract Anthea, who terrifies me, by using Lydia, who I barely know, all so you can lure Mycroft out to his office?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous," Greg admitted.

"That's because it is ridiculous," John shot back, but Greg could hear the hint of amusement in his voice. "Alright, fine. I'm in. But if this goes pear-shaped, I'm blaming you entirely."

Greg grinned. "Fair enough. Now, here's what I was thinking..."

As Greg outlined his admittedly half-baked plan, he could almost hear John's eyebrows rising higher and higher. By the time he finished, John was laughing.

"You sir, are a dead man.”

Anthea sighed as the text came through and she called Mycroft immediately.

“Was this meant for me?” she asked carefully.

“Yes, Anthea,” Mycroft replied, annoyed.

“It’s Sunday.”

“I apologise.”

“We both know that is not true.”

“I was called in too, so I am sorry, Anthea.”

She sighed again. “I know. Sorry, sir. I shall be there with a car in twenty minutes.”

“We shan’t stay long, I promise.”

Anthea arrived at Mycroft's townhouse exactly twenty minutes later, her face a mask of professional neutrality despite the early hour and unexpected summons. As Mycroft slid into the back seat, she caught a whiff of his cologne—the expensive one he only wore for important meetings.

"I take it this isn't a run-of-the-mill crisis, then?" she asked, pulling away from the curb.

Mycroft's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Let's just say it's a delicate situation requiring our particular set of skills."

As they drove through the quiet Sunday morning streets, Anthea's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, expecting another cryptic message from the office. Instead, she saw a text from an unknown number:

Fancy a coffee? I hear there's a new place that does a killer flat white. - L

She held her phone up to Mycroft, murderous.

“Explain. Now,” she growled.

He looked at her steadily, his face an echo of her own challenge. True to her character, she did not back down.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose fractionally, the only outward sign of his surprise. "I'm afraid I have no explanation to offer, Anthea. I am not privy to your personal correspondence."

Anthea's eyes narrowed. "This isn't personal correspondence. This is clearly part of whatever scheme you and Detective Inspector Lestrade are cooking up."

"I assure you, I am not 'cooking up' anything with Gregory," Mycroft replied, his tone clipped. "Especially not on a Sunday morning when I should be enjoying my tea in silence."

Anthea studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. But when this all blows up in your face—and it will—I expect a substantial raise."

"Noted," Mycroft said dryly.

They pulled up to the office and found John Watson outside. Anthea stared at Mycroft until he simply shook his head.

“Okay, I agree this is not looking good. But I assure you I am still in the dark. Had I any idea, I’d be telling you so we could both escape whatever is happening here.”

“I knew you dating someone was going to make my life more difficult, I just hadn’t anticipated it happening this swiftly.”

Mycroft’s blush was award enough for her; truthfully, she was quite ecstatic about his recent happiness. The past few weeks, she’d been home before ten at least five times and had managed two entire weekends off in a row. It was miraculous. The fact that Mycroft was far more regularly smiling when he called her into his office was an added bonus. She wasn’t really angry, but she sure as hell was suspicious.

John spotted them and waved, a slightly manic grin on his face. Anthea's eyes narrowed further.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft greeted coolly as they approached. "To what do we owe the pleasure on this fine Sunday morning?"

John's smile wavered slightly. "Oh, you know. Just thought I'd pop by. Lovely day for a stroll, isn't it?"

Anthea snorted. "A stroll that just happens to lead you to a government office on a weekend?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." John trailed off, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

Mycroft sighed. "John, while I appreciate your... enthusiasm for exercise, I'm afraid we have pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps we could reschedule this impromptu meeting?"

Before John could respond, Anthea's phone buzzed again. She glanced at it and screamed between her teeth.

Just go with the man, Anthea. Send Mycroft up.

She, of course, showed Mycroft. Who, much to her immediate ire, smiled.

“Why did I have to come to this set-up!” she yelled. “You could have met Lestrade up there for office trysts without interrupting my yoga class.”

“That would be my cue,” John said sheepishly. “We have an appointment, you and I.”

Anthea fixed him with a withering glare and crossed her arms.

“Yes, yes, I know. It’s not technically - listen, just trust me, okay?”

Anthea's glare intensified, if possible. "Trust you? Dr. Watson, I barely know you, and what I do know involves an alarming amount of explosions and ill-advised chases across London."

John winced. "Fair point. But this time, I promise there are no explosions. Just coffee. And maybe a pastry, if you're feeling adventurous."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Anthea, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to indulge Dr Watson for a moment. I'm quite capable of handling matters upstairs on my own for a short while."

Anthea turned her glare on Mycroft, who met it with a placid smile. She huffed, uncrossing her arms. "Fine. But this better be the best damn coffee I've ever had, or there will be consequences."

"Noted," John said, swallowing hard.

Side by side, but in silence, they made it the short two blocks to her favourite work-neighbourhood coffee shop. John opened the door for her and then determinedly did not follow her inside.

“Hiya!” called a far too energetic, too friendly voice from the corner.

She turned and found Lydia, of bouncy hair and unnervingly close-to-the-truth statements, and swallowed. The woman smiled beatifically at her and waved.

She was going to kill John. And Greg. And possibly Mycroft. She would determine how far down the list she needed to go later.

First, she was going to have coffee.

Back at the office, Mycroft had made it through the security checks that even he had to do — well, the ones he subjected himself to, truthfully, but the appearance of these things mattered. He knew he was bounding a bit. The evening before with Greg had unleashed a part of him that he’d carefully tucked away for several years.

His father had consistently sort of attempted to tamp down the flamboyance of Mycroft’s core, and eventually, it had worked. He’d always been reserved, and quiet. But sometimes, he did even that too loudly for his father. Christmas was one of those times. He quite loved the act of unnecessary gift-giving coupled with bright lights and sweets and songs that made very little sense. But his family Christmas had been very English and therefore, while always happy, they’d grown quiet. The Holmes brothers hadn’t exactly been rambunctious even as children, meaning that the phase of ‘small children at Christmas’ had been over quite quickly. They’d stayed polite, reserved, warm but bland, for decades. 

Until, apparently, Mycroft had been allowed to run around an English shopping district finding metal mice. He’d arrived home the evening before and immediately put on a dusty Christmas vinyl he’d had at the back of his box. He looked at cookie recipes for hours, resolving to bake at some point in the following week. And he’d messaged the man who usually handled his shopping and dismissed his services for the year. Mycroft was going to go and buy his own damn Christmas presents.

So, whatever Greg held in store for him today was going to be welcomed with open arms, and even he wasn’t sure how much of that had to do with the fact that it was Greg offering them. When Mycroft entered his office, he was greeted by the sight of Greg lounging in his chair, feet propped up on the desk. The detective inspector was wearing a Santa hat and had a mischievous grin on his face.

"Ho ho ho," Greg said, his eyes twinkling. "Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle. "Gregory, what on earth are you doing?"

Greg stood up, revealing a small Christmas tree on the desk behind him. "I'm bringing Christmas to your office, of course. Can't have you working all through the holidays without some festive cheer."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "And this required getting John to distract Anthea?"

"Well," Greg said, rubbing the back of his neck, "I may have gone a bit overboard. But look!" He gestured to the yet unseen walls surrounding him and Mycroft gasped.

Mycroft's eyes widened as he took in the transformation of his usually austere office. Every inch of wall space was covered in twinkling fairy lights, garlands, and an assortment of quirky Christmas decorations. There were paper snowflakes dangling from the ceiling, a garland of tiny elves hung on the back wall, and even a small electronic fireplace projecting a cosy glow in the corner.

"Gregory," Mycroft breathed, a mix of shock and delight in his voice. "How on earth did you manage all this?"

Greg's grin widened. "Let's just say I called in a few favours. And maybe bribed a security guard or two with promises I shall not divulge."

Mycroft slowly walked around the room, taking in every detail. His fingers brushed against a string of garland, and he couldn't quite catch his breath. No one, in his memory, had done anything like this for him. He circled the entire room before coming to stand in front of Greg. Following his instinct, he settled down into Greg’s lap

Greg's arms immediately encircled Mycroft, pulling him close. "So, I take it you like it?" he asked, his voice soft and hopeful.

Mycroft nodded, words failing him for a moment. He leaned his head against Greg's shoulder, breathing in the scent of pine and cinnamon that now permeated his office. "It's... perfect," he finally managed. "Utterly perfect."

Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple. "I'm glad. I wanted to show you that work doesn't have to be all serious all the time. Even the British Government deserves some Christmas cheer."

Mycroft chuckled, his eyes still roaming the festive decorations. "I fear you may have created a monster, Gregory. I might insist on keeping these up well past the New Year."

"Fine by me," Greg laughed. He nestled further into the office chair, holding Mycroft tight. "I feel ancient. This didn't take that long but I'm worn out." 

Mycroft grinned, settling in further. "Rest then. Nothing is happening." 

"Can't, 'm afraid." 

"Why ever not?"

"I must now insist that we make use of this incredibly empty office. It’s Sunday after all. And some of us have been here for hours, thinking of little else.”

Mycroft smirked wickedly and refused to meet Greg's gaze, still feeling the heat that was raking over his face, his body. “There are still at least thirty people on this floor alone.”

“I see absolutely zero people.”        

Mycroft leaned up and kissed Greg, intense and grateful. He found he was not unaffected by the efforts that had been provided to him; or at least, not unaffected by sitting in Greg’s lap.

“What are you suggesting, in the MI5 offices, my place of employment, just because it is a weekend, Detective Inspector?" 

“Do you actually object,” Greg whispered, his voice deep and husky as he squirmed slightly beneath Mycroft. “Or are you stalling?”

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat as he considered Greg's words. The rational part of his brain was screaming about propriety and security protocols, but the part of him that had been awakened by Greg's presence in his life was thrumming with excitement.

"I... I don't object," Mycroft said softly, his cheeks flushing. "But perhaps we should keep things a bit…?"

Words failed him. Greg smiled, smoothing a hand down Mycroft’s back. “I am going to need you to find that magical place we both found the other day where you think less. I’m not going to get you fired. I promise. But. That doesn’t mean we can’t—”

He leaned in, capturing Mycroft's lips in a searing kiss. Mycroft melted into it, his hands coming up to cup Greg's face. The kiss deepened, and Mycroft found himself shifting in Greg's lap, seeking more contact. He found Greg already hard beneath him and gasped.

Greg's hands roamed Mycroft's back, pulling him closer. "God, you're gorgeous,"

“No one has ever said that about me,” Mycroft murmured, accepting Greg’s kisses along his neck. “I…I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing to be done, Posh. You can’t stop me calling you gorgeous, even if you try.”

Mycroft's heart swelled with emotion at Greg's words. He leaned in for another kiss, slower this time, savouring the moment. As they parted, Mycroft rested his forehead against Greg's, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

"I'm not used to this," Mycroft admitted softly. "Being... wanted. Desired. It's rather overwhelming."

Greg's hands came up to cup Mycroft's face, his thumbs gently stroking his cheekbones. "Well, get used to it, love. Because I plan on reminding you just how gorgeous and desirable you are every chance I get."

Mycroft felt a warmth spread through his chest at Greg's words. He shifted slightly, causing both of them to gasp as their bodies aligned perfectly. "Gregory," Mycroft breathed, his voice husky with desire.

Greg’s hands left his back, clad in a very nice suit — he had, after all, believed he was coming to work. They slid down to cup Mycroft's arse, guiding him into a slow, sensual grind. Mycroft gasped at the friction, his head falling back as pleasure coursed through him. Mycroft rolled his hips experimentally, drawing a groan from Greg. Encouraged, he repeated the motion, finding a rhythm that had them both panting. The layers of fabric between them only seemed to heighten the sensation, the tantalizing promise of more. 

Greg leaned in, trailing a path of hot kisses along Mycroft's neck as they moved together in perfect synchronization. Mycroft's hands gripped Greg's shoulders with a fierce intensity, anchoring himself to the moment as he rode the waves of pleasure that crashed over him. The fairy-lit office around them faded away, replaced by a sense of complete and utter bliss created by the connection between their bodies. Every touch, every kiss, sending sparks of electricity through Mycroft's skin. Their eyes locked in an intense gaze, only breaking apart to reattach their lips and deepen their desires. With each passing moment, Mycroft felt all pretence of control drift away from his grasp.

As they sat later, still connected, Mycroft let out a contented sigh. His head rested on Greg's shoulder, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The twinkling lights cast a soft glow around them, creating a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.

"Well," Greg murmured, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on Mycroft's back, "I'd say that's one way to christen your newly decorated office."

Mycroft chuckled softly, pressing a kiss to Greg's neck. "Indeed. Though I fear I may never be able to look at this chair the same way again."

Greg grinned, giving Mycroft a gentle squeeze. "Good. That was kind of the point, you know. To give you something nice to think about when you're stuck here working late."

Mycroft lifted his head, meeting Greg's eyes with a tender smile. "I can think of reasons to leave the office earlier too.”

“Even better,” Greg replied. 

Chapter Text

Anthea sighed and answered her phone.

“I am not speaking to you, stop calling me.”

“Oh come off it,” Greg laughed. “You know you had fun. She’s great isn’t she?”

“That is hardly the point!” Anthea shouted, startling a pigeon that was on the pavement beside her.

She was walking to work again, though the sky had taken a dark turn that was going to make the trip home highly questionable. She just figured that walking to work was better than taking out her frustration on Mycroft. Conveniently, Greg had called and would do nicely for a punching bag.

“I am a thirty…something, year old woman. Who is very capable! I do not need middle-aged men meddling in my affairs.”

“Maybe not,” Greg answered jovially. “But it’s Christmas. Everyone can use a nudge around the holidays.”

“A nudge,” Anthea said scathingly. “You ambushed me into a date I didn’t know about. I was dressed for work!”

“And? What is a first date if not an interview? Relax. She likes you. She’s right here in the office. D’you want to talk to her?”

“Gregory Lestrade, if you do not hang up the phone right now, I swear to—”

“Alright, alright. I wasn’t calling for that. I was hoping I could persuade you to help me Christmas shop. For Mycroft, obviously.”

“You want my help! You are very sure of yourself, Detective.”

“I can get Lydia to come too, if you’d like.”

Suddenly flustered, Anthea had difficulty putting her next three thoughts together.

"I... you... that's not..." Anthea sputtered, her usual composure slipping. She took a deep breath, attempting to regain control. "Fine. But only because Mycroft is impossible to shop for, and I refuse to let you muck it up."

Greg's chuckle crackled through the phone. "Brilliant! I'll text you the details. And Anthea? Wear something festive. It's Christmas, after all."

Before she could protest, he had vanished. Anthea glared at her mobile, half-tempted to hurl it into the gutter. Instead, she tucked it away and quickened her pace, muttering under her breath about meddlesome detectives and their holiday cheer. At the office, she was greeted by Mycroft's raised eyebrow.

"Trouble with the commute?" he inquired mildly.

“I have decided I really dislike your boyfriend,” she muttered, though the heat was missing from her tone. Resolutely ignoring the mild panic on Mycroft's face at the use of a label, she asked. “Is there anything particularly pressing going on this afternoon, after four?”

“Hopefully not,” Mycroft replied, checking his planner nonetheless. “I have drinks with my mother this evening.”

“Intentionally?”

“I like my mother. I am not one of you millennial blighters who has forgotten to—”

“I swear that if that sentence ends in ‘respect my elders’, I shall hurl a book at you. I am not in the mood.”

Mycroft smirked. “Fine, fine. Nonetheless, you may be free as soon as you would like. I owe you that much at least. Interesting plans?”

“I desperately hope that they are not interesting. But. I would like to get home and change first.”

Anthea knew she was blushing, and since that was not a fact she was willing to consciously acknowledge, she decided to just start her morning instead and returned to her desk to complete all seventy-three tasks that had somehow managed to end up on her to-do list over the weekend.

The day flew by in a whirlwind of paperwork, phone calls, and the occasional glare at her mobile when it buzzed with a text from Greg. By four o'clock, she was practically vibrating with a mixture of anticipation and dread. She gathered her things, bid Mycroft a hasty goodbye, and dashed out of the office.

At home, Anthea stood before her wardrobe, frowning. "Festive," she muttered, rifling through her clothes. Eventually, she settled on a deep green jumper and a pair of black trousers. She added a small holly pin to her lapel as a concession to Greg's request.

As she was touching up her makeup, her phone chimed.

Looking forward to seeing you tonight. Don't let Greg drive you mad.

Anthea's frown deepened; she wasn’t annoyed at Lydia. In fact, she did quite enjoy Lydia’s company. But if there was one thing she could not abide, it was manipulation. She very likely would have worked up the courage to stop by Greg’s office again at some point to talk specifically to the magnanimous clerk. Eventually. In the New Year, perhaps. But now she was on some sort of expedited speed run that Lydia presumably had no idea about. And she did not like it.

Not much, anyway.

Sorry about this , she replied. They’re quite meddlesome for men who have no clue, aren’t they ?

I am finding it quite difficult to be angry :) Drinks at nine, yeah? I told Greg I was busy, so don’t let him catch on that we had plans before he even asked.

Anthea smiled. Yeah, alright. I’ll see you then.

She marched out the door and hopped on the tube. She had managed to avoid the tube for weeks and only remembered why as she sat amongst the other early evening commuters, getting too hot and damp in the underground air that was way too warm for a coat. When she emerged into the glaring brightness of Waterloo station, she immediately found Greg, which was weird. Like she had a magnetic understanding of where he was standing.

“Alright, let’s get this Festive Christmas Market Experience out of the way," she declared by way of greeting.

“Such cheerful spirit,” Greg teased.

The Southbank Winter Market was one of her favourite haunts in the holiday months, though she’d kill anyone who said so; it was bright and loud and smelt of cinnamon, and it made it impossible to be angry or sad while you stood in the lines for halloumi and lamb pitas or souvenir mugs of gluhwein. Greg, walking beside her with his hands in his pockets and whistling along to the carols being piped out around them, was hardly a negative addition to the experience. Largely because he was just too damned happy.

She huffed. “Jesus, are you always like this? It’s indecent.”

Greg laughed. “Unfortunately, I have been accused of inappropriate cheeriness. I have my days, I promise you. Right bastard sometimes. But. Yeah. I’m, uh, in a good mood.”

“I do not even want to know. That man is still my boss.”

Greg held up his hands in mock surrender. “I said nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“I assume that you are responsible for the fairy lights that are all over my workspace?”

“Guilty.”

“Hrmph.”

They wandered through the market, the festive atmosphere slowly chipping away at Anthea's resolve to remain annoyed. The scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts filled the air, and the twinkling lights reflected off the Thames just over the wall, creating a magical ambience.

"So," Greg said, pausing at a stall selling fancy coffees, "any ideas for Mycroft?"

Anthea sighed. "He's impossible to shop for. Everything he wants, he already has. And anything he doesn't have, he doesn't want."

Greg chuckled. "Sounds about right. What about something sentimental?"

"Sentimental?" Anthea scoffed. "Are we talking about the same Mycroft Holmes?"

"Oh, come on," Greg said, nudging her with his elbow. "He's not as cold as he likes to pretend to be.”

Anthea let out a soft laugh but couldn't hide the surprise in her expression. “Oh, I know. I’m just surprised you do. You two have gotten quite cosy, quite quickly. Should I be worried?”

Greg's smile faltered for a moment before he regained his composure. "I think we're both worried enough for everyone," he replied with a slight shrug. "It’s baffling. I feel like it’s been…years. I can’t account for it.”

“Yeah, well. Try not to overthink it.”

“That’s funny. That’s what I keep telling him. Hard to take my own advice.”

“Yeah, well. As I said. He’s worth it. But he does tend to latch on.”

“So this has happened before?” Greg asked, brows furrowing.

Anthea looked at him and laughed. “Christ, your face. Calm down, oh jealous one. No, this has not happened before. I — uh, well, no I probably shouldn’t tell you that.”

“Well, now you have to obviously.”

“Well,” Anthea hesitated, knowing this was crossing a line and somehow not really caring. “I hired someone for him, a few years back. As far as I know, he saw him once and never again. Beyond that, I don’t even know if he’s ever been…interested. In anyone.”

Greg's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly schooled his expression. "Well, that's... interesting. I suppose I should feel flattered, then."

Anthea nodded, her lips quirking into a small smile. "You should. And you should also be careful. Mycroft... he's not used to this sort of thing. He might not always know how to react."

"I've noticed," Greg said softly. "But I'm patient. And I think he's worth it."

Anthea felt a warmth bloom in her chest at Greg's words. She'd always been protective of Mycroft, and hearing Greg speak about him with such genuine affection was reassuring.

"Right," she said, clearing her throat. "Enough of this sentimental nonsense. We're here to shop, aren't we?"

Greg grinned. "Indeed we are. How about that stall.”

“The one with the stained glass birds? Gregory, no,” she sighed, steering him towards a leather works stall with several boutique cases, notebooks, diaries, and other very masculine, very leather-y goods.

Greg's eyes lit up as they approached the stall. "Now we're talking," he said, running his fingers over a sleek leather briefcase. "This is much more Mycroft's style."

Anthea nodded approvingly. "Better. Though I doubt he needs another briefcase."

They perused the items, picking up and examining various notebooks and wallets. Greg held up a leather-bound journal with an intricate design embossed on the cover. "What about this? He's always scribbling in that little notebook of his."

Anthea considered it for a moment. "It's nice, but not quite... Mycroft enough."

As they continued browsing, Anthea's eyes fell on a small, unassuming box tucked away in the corner of the display. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands. It was a leather-covered box, with an inscription on the side in Latin.

“Ah ha,” she said softly.

Greg peered over her shoulder. "What's that?"

"It's one of those puzzle boxes, you know…you have to get the order right to open it?" Anthea explained, running her fingers over the soft leather. "And look at the inscription."

Greg squinted at the Latin words. "What does it say?"

"'Dum spiro spero,'" Anthea translated. "While I breathe, I hope."

A slow smile spread across Greg's face. "That's perfect. It's somehow both impractical and perfect.”

Anthea nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's exactly the kind of thing he'd appreciate. Clever, discreet, and with just a touch of sentiment."

Greg grinned, clearly pleased with their find. "Well, that's sorted then. Shall we get it?"

As Anthea was about to agree, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her expression softening slightly. "It's Lydia," she said, almost to herself.

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? And what does the lovely Lydia have to say?"

Anthea rolled her eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. "She's just confirming our... plans for later."

"Plans?" Greg's grin widened. "I thought you weren't speaking to her."

"I wasn't speaking to you," Anthea corrected. “Because you are not involved in this.”

Greg just laughed, paying the man at the booth and leaving Anthea to her text messages and small, secret smiles. 

Chapter Text

Mycroft awoke slowly, his senses gradually coming back to him. He was in an unfamiliar bed, the soft sheets cool against his skin. The room was a sharp contrast to the stark and sterile surroundings of his bedroom; it was opulent and rich, adorned with a deep burgundy colour that hinted at luxury and indulgence. A four-poster bed dominated the space, its drapes soft and clean. On a small side table made of intricately carved oak sat a glass of water and a bottle of paracetamol, evidence of someone's care for his well-being. Mycroft blinked groggily as his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. He reached out tentatively, his hand brushing against the silky bedsheets. As his foggy mind cleared, fragments of the previous night began to resurface. A dinner party. Copious amounts of brandy. A heated debate about foreign policy with the Duke of Wellington. And then... what?

He gingerly pushed himself up, wincing at the dull throb in his temples. His waistcoat and shoes were neatly arranged on a nearby chaise lounge, but the rest of his attire remained intact, if somewhat rumpled. Leave it to his mother to turn ‘casual Christmas drinks’ into a full three-course dinner with people he barely remembered from his childhood.

"Well, at least I've maintained some semblance of propriety," he muttered to himself.

A soft knock at the door startled him. "Mr Holmes?" called a muffled voice. "Are you awake, sir?”

Mycroft cleared his throat, attempting to sound more composed than he felt. "Yes, quite awake. Do come in."

The door creaked open, revealing his parents' young housekeeper with a silver tray balanced expertly on one hand. She bustled in, her starched apron rustling as she moved. Of course they made her wear an apron. He sighed. 

"Good morning, sir. Mrs Holmes asked me to bring you some breakfast and to inform you that your father would like to speak to you in the lounge."

Mycroft suppressed a groan. How dreadfully tedious. He'd much prefer to slip away unnoticed, but he knew his mother would hold it against him for months, meaning that dealing with Sherlock would become ten times more complicated.

"Thank you," he managed, accepting the tray with as much dignity as he could muster. "What time is it now?"

The maid glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. “Half ten,” she said apologetically.

He really hoped he’d remembered to call Anthea last night. He sighed again, thanked the housekeeper and stood gingerly, dressing in his suit from the night before carefully. He had, of course, not planned to stay at the North London house, and had not brought a change of clothing. Why would he have, he thought bitterly, when he was meant to be meeting his mother at the fussy little gastropub she liked in Enfield? He’d arrived moments before her phone call asking him to just ‘nip up to the house’ instead.

He should have known.

He quickly perused the tray, decided all his stomach was ready for was a black coffee, and filled a mug. He downed that one as quickly as the hot liquid would allow, refilled it and carried it with him carefully as he traipsed down to the lounge. Annie, his father’s geriatric lurcher, met him at the door with an affectionate head butt and he scratched her ears quickly before settling, pin straight, onto the end of the settee. If she was here, his father was not far off.

“Ah, Mycroft,” he said as he entered the room from the library. “Excellent to see you survived. When it passed nine this morning no one seemed sure.”

“Yes, well, we aren’t all accustomed to Monday night dinner parties with more aperitif than canape. I had not been informed I needed to prepare my liver before coming to visit Mum.”

“Not all of us feel the need to indulge to the point of excess, either, son,” his father said with a teasing grin. “But let’s not argue. You’ll only upset Annie.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at the dog, who was flopped on the floor and currently chewing her own leg; she looked, at the moment, a bit impossible to rattle.

“I only wanted to tell you that your mum I will be spending Christmas abroad.”

Mycroft blinked, momentarily taken aback. "Abroad? But what about the annual Holmes family gathering? Surely Mum wouldn't..."

His father waved a dismissive hand. "Your mother has decided she's had quite enough of English winter for the time being. We're off to the Maldives on Thursday."

"I see," Mycroft said, his mind already racing through the implications. "And Sherlock?"

"Ah yes, your brother," his father sighed, settling into his favourite armchair. "That's actually why I wanted to speak with you. We were rather hoping you might keep an eye on him while we're away."

Mycroft felt a headache brewing that had nothing to do with last night's brandy. "Father, you know how... challenging Sherlock can be. Especially during the holidays."

"Come now, Mycroft," his father sighed.

Mycroft bristled and shoved his voice back into his most businesslike tones. “It is the nineteenth of December. Were you planning to tell me that I would be given this little detail? Had I not come last night, would you have just left the country and sent an email?”

His father's expression softened slightly. "Now, now, Mycroft. Please, not the melodrama. Your mum and I have been discussing this trip for weeks. We simply... hadn't found the right moment to bring it up."

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "And last night's spontaneous dinner party was meant to be that moment, I presume?"

"Well, yes," his father admitted, looking a touch sheepish. "Though I daresay things didn't go quite according to plan."

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Father, you do realise I have a rather demanding job? One that doesn't exactly allow for babysitting of my adult brother?"

"Sherlock's hardly requires minding, Mycroft," his father chided. "We're simply asking you to check—”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft interjected. “I’m afraid I cannot. I am also to be out of the country.”

His father's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Out of the country? Where on earth are you going?"

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. He hadn't actually planned to be away, but the prospect of dealing with Sherlock's holiday antics was enough to make him consider booking a last-minute flight to... well, anywhere, really.

"I have pressing matters to attend to in Paris," he lied smoothly, silently congratulating himself on his quick thinking. "Highly confidential, I'm afraid. Can't discuss the details."

His father frowned, clearly not entirely convinced. "Paris? Over Christmas? Surely they don't expect you to work through the holidays?"

Mycroft allowed a small, tight smile to play across his lips. "The work of government never truly stops, Father. You know that as well as anyone."

Against his will, and very much against any logical sense, a small and hopeful flame ignited in Mycroft. Paris. At Christmastime. It was too much to expect of anyone, let alone a man you barely knew, who you had barely been seeing long enough to have a claim to a Saturday with, let alone a holiday out of the country. Still. Before his father’s last grumbled objection had fully died in his throat, Mycroft had resolved to just ask Greg.

Mycroft's father sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in resignation. "Very well, Mycroft. I suppose we'll have to find another solution for Sherlock. Perhaps Mrs Hudson..."

But Mycroft was no longer listening, his mind already racing ahead to the logistics of his hastily concocted plan.

"If that's all, Father, I really must be going," Mycroft said, rising from the settee. "I have quite a bit to arrange before my trip."

His father nodded, looking slightly bewildered by the sudden turn of events. "Of course, of course. Do give our love to Sherlock when you see him, won't you?"

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise as he strode straight to the front door. He would call a car from the street. His mother, he presumed, was upstairs packing; a slight tinge of guilt crossed his mind about the prospect of leaving without saying goodbye, but it was worth it to avoid more conflict inside the house.

On a whim — and before he lost his nerve — he dialled Greg’s number, quite forgetting that it was the middle of the morning on a weekday.

“Lestrade,” a gruff voice answered. Busy then. He hadn’t looked down at his phone before picking up.

“Before you answer this question, please know that there is no obligation to it and I would like it if you would take some time to think it through before making a decision."

“Morning to you too, Posh,” Greg said, more warmly now that he knew it was Mycroft on the line.

Mycroft felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling rather nervous.

"Yes, good morning, Gregory. I apologise for disturbing you at work."

"S'alright," Greg replied, his voice lowering slightly. "Everything okay?"

Mycroft hesitated, then plunged ahead. "I find myself in need of a... travelling companion. For Paris. Over the Christmas holiday."

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line. Then, "Paris? For Christmas?"

"Yes, well," Mycroft fumbled, feeling rather wrong-footed. "It's all rather last-minute, I'm afraid. A…well, no, just a personal matter has come up, and I thought perhaps... well, that is to say, if you're not otherwise engaged..."

He trailed off, cursing inwardly at his uncharacteristic lack of poise. This was an absolutely ludicrous idea. Greg had a family. Close friends. He’d have plans over Christmas. The line remained silent for a few moments.

“You get to be in Paris over Christmas,” Greg replied softly, voice catching. “And…you’d like me…that is…um.”

Greg's voice trailed off, and Mycroft felt his heart sink. Of course it was too much to ask. He was about to backtrack, to make some excuse about a misunderstanding, when Greg spoke again.

"Mycroft, are you... are you asking me to spend Christmas with you? In Paris?"

Mycroft swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "I. Yes, I suppose I am. Though as I said, there's no obligation—"

"Yes," Greg interrupted, his voice firm and clear now. "Yes, I'd love to."

Mycroft blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. "You... you would?"

Greg chuckled softly. "Course I would, you daft man. Christmas in Paris with you? Sounds bloody perfect."

“Are you sure you don’t need to…check in with family and review…plans?”

Greg laughed again, a warm sound that made Mycroft's chest tighten pleasantly. "Mycroft, pet, my family's used to me working through the holidays. Been doing it for years. They'll be chuffed to bits that I'm actually taking some time off for once, even if it's not with them."

Mycroft felt a wave of relief wash over him. "Well, then. I suppose I should start making arrangements. Do you have a preference for hotels?”

"Do I have a preference for hotels? In Paris?" Greg sputtered. "Be serious, Mycroft. You don't do things by halves, do you?"

"Only the best for you, Gregory," Mycroft replied, surprising himself with his own boldness.

There was a pause, and Mycroft could almost hear the smile in Greg's voice.

“Well,” Greg said quietly. “If we’re spending Christmas together, guess I better tell my sister I’ve a boyfriend, hm?”

Mycroft felt the familiar bubble of panic in his stomach, though he couldn’t be sure why. His breath caught in his throat. Boyfriend. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications and expectations. He hadn't dared to put a label on whatever this was between them, but hearing Greg say it so casually, so matter-of-factly, sent a thrill through him.

"I... suppose you should," Mycroft managed, his voice sounding strangely distant to his own ears. "If that's how you see things, of course."

Greg's warm chuckle came through the line. "Course it is, you numpty. Unless you've got some other blokes you're whisking away to Paris for Christmas?"

Mycroft felt a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "No, Gregory. There's only you."

"Good," Greg said, his voice softening. "Because there's only you for me too, Mycroft."

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay,” Greg laughed. “Look, I have to run. But like. Honestly. Fucking Paris. You’re a wonder, Mycroft. Talk to you later?”

"Yes, of course," Mycroft replied, feeling a warmth spreading through his chest. "I'll call you this evening with the details."

As he ended the call, Mycroft found himself standing on the pavement outside his parents' house, a ridiculous smile plastered across his face. He quickly schooled his features into something more neutral, but couldn't quite quell the excitement bubbling up inside him.

Paris. With Gregory. For Christmas.

It was mad, completely impulsive, and utterly unlike him. And yet, Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this... happy.

He hailed a cab, his mind already whirring with plans. He'd need to book flights, secure a hotel - something suitably romantic, but not ostentatious. Perhaps that charming little boutique place in the Marais he'd stayed at years ago. And restaurants - he'd needed the best cuisine he could possibly find.

Though perhaps, first, he needed a shower. He was distinctly aware of how much he currently smelt of brandy.

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s phone rang while he was in the middle of being Sherlock. Since John had been handling the whole ‘being Sherlock’ thing quite badly all day, he answered the phone for him in the middle of a ring and was possibly too curt when he greeted whoever was on the other end.

Since he was still being very much himself, Sherlock did not deign to look up or engage in any way when John said ‘It’s your mother’. This left John with two options; beg the lovely woman to call back another time, or just handle the conversation himself. He was already on the phone so he just let the situation play out before him. He hung up five minutes later, collapsed back into his armchair and sighed.

“That was your mother, as mentioned,” John said to Sherlock’s back. He had been in that chair most of the night and hadn’t moved in several hours, even after John had placed a cup of tea at his elbow. The only indication that he had been heard at all was a slight tap of one forefinger where it was steepled against the others.

“She wanted to speak with you,” he added.

“Mm,” Sherlock allowed, the first sound he’d made in hours.

“Asked me to let you know that they will not be here for Christmas. And neither, apparently, will Mycroft.”

“I heard,” Sherlock muttered.

“And?”

Finally, Sherlock stretched his neck in both directions, rolled his shoulders, and dropped his hands to the arms of the chair.

“And what, John?” he said, sounding exasperated. “I am apparently free of familial obligations at the Yuletide. Yippee? May I go back to this case now?”

“You have no follow-up questions? Where are your parents going? Is Mycroft going with them? Nothing?”

Sherlock studied him sidelong for a moment and considered the question. “I don’t see why I should care. Hardly feels relevant to me.”

John sighed, scrubbing his face. “Enough, Sherlock. You’ve been like this since you found out about Mycroft and Greg and it’s getting a bit old, mate.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So you have no problem with me inviting them both to the New Year’s thing. Together.”

Sherlock sighed, hung his head.

"John, I have no interest in who my brother chooses to associate with," Sherlock said, his tone clipped. "If you wish to invite Mycroft and Lestrade to your little soirée, by all means, do so. Just don't expect me to engage in tedious small talk or feign interest in their... relationship."

John leaned forward in his chair, studying Sherlock's profile. "You know, it's okay to admit that it bothers you. I mean, your brother and our friend—it's bound to be a bit weird, isn't it?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't bother me," he insisted. "I simply find it... unnecessary. Distracting. Mycroft should know better than to indulge in such frivolities."

"Frivolities?" John echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Relationships are frivolous, are they? And you were doing perfectly fine before I moved in here?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s the same though. It is. He’s your brother. You’ve got to work out what’s annoying you. He…well, I know he frustrates you but he cares about you. He’s always trying to take care of you. Would it kill you to return the favour once in a while?”

“Quite possibly,” Sherlock replied flippantly. “Where Mycroft is involved, the chance of imminent death is never zero.”

John chuckled humourlessly. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I am simply annoyed because it is going to make cases more difficult. That little adventure at the pub proved that point quite neatly. You’ll have to forgive me if I am not jumping for joy that the only competent detective in London is now distracted.”

“You never call Greg competent.”

“Not to his face,” Sherlock said, returning his fingers to their thinking position and resting his chin on his thumbs. “Now stop. I am thinking.”

“Fine, but I plan on finding out where Mycroft is going.”

"Suit yourself," Sherlock muttered, his eyes sliding shut as he retreated into his mind palace.

John shook his head, exasperated but not surprised. He pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text to Greg.

Any idea where Mycroft's off to for Christmas?

The reply came swiftly. Not sure I’m meant to say.

Interesting. You’ll be with him then, I assume?

There was a longer pause before Greg's response came through. John could almost picture the detective inspector squirming uncomfortably.

Might be. Look, it's all a bit... new. Don't want to make a big deal of it, despite the other night.

John smiled to himself. He could practically hear Greg's gruff embarrassment through the text.

No worries, mate. Just curious. You two have fun, wherever you end up. Still coming for New Year, yeah? 

Wouldn't miss it :) 

He set his phone down and glanced over at Sherlock, who hadn't moved an inch. John smiled, studying the back of Sherlock's head again. 

"You know," John said casually, "I think it's rather nice that Greg and Mycroft found each other. Two workaholics who understand the demands of each other's jobs. Might be good for both of them. So you should work on getting over it.”

“Any idea why John is texting me about where you’re going to be at Christmas?” Greg asked, putting his phone down and looking up at Mycroft from under his arm on the sofa. The smooth, rhythmic hand carding through his hair paused and Mycroft let his book rest on the arm of the chair.

“Hm,” Mycroft said carefully. “Well, I imagine my mother called to inform them that they would not be in England next week either.”

“What?” Greg asked, alarmed. “We’re leaving Sherlock alone at Christmas?”

“He has John,” Mycroft replied, unconcerned.

“Mycroft,” Greg complained.

Mycroft sighed, setting down his newspaper. "Gregory, I assure you, Sherlock will be perfectly fine. He's never been one for holiday festivities anyway."

Greg sat up, frowning. "Yeah, but still. It's Christmas. Family should be together."

"The Holmes’s," Mycroft said softly, reaching out to take Greg's hand, “Are not...that. My parents understand. Or, they will, should I ever decide to tell them"

Greg's expression softened, but he still looked conflicted. "I just feel bad, leaving Sherlock out."

"Trust me, he'd much rather we leave him out," Mycroft said dryly. "Besides, he has John. And Mrs. Hudson. He won't be alone."

“God, you two are impossible,” Greg sighed, snuggling back into the sofa.

By the time he got up with the full intention of needing to go home, Greg was fit to burst and Mycroft was clearly sensing it.

“You might as well say what you are thinking,” Mycroft said, handing Greg his coat as they stood by the door.

Greg inhaled slowly. “I spent a lot of years miserable at Christmas. The marriage. The fights with my family over the marriage.”

Mycroft did not immediately reply. He just tilted his head ever so slightly, a facial expression that Greg now understood to be an attentive listening position.

“I want to go to Paris. More than you know. But.”

“But?” Mycroft breathed.

“Can we come back Christmas Eve?” Greg asked, all in a rush. “Have a party. Just a small one. With the people we actually like.”

“I have been led to believe you didn’t like Christmas parties,” Mycroft asked joylessly. Greg wasn’t fooled. He’d made Mycroft nervous.

“This isn’t about…you and me. Or Paris. Or taking the trip together. I just—”

Words failed him and he looked down at his feet, sliding his arms into his jacket; he was pretty sure he had just blown it. Changed something significant. Burst a bubble that had been fragile to begin with and liable to pop easily. Suddenly, he felt Mycroft lift his chin with one finger.

"Gregory," Mycroft said softly, his eyes searching Greg's face. "I understand. And... I think it's a wonderful idea."

Greg blinked, surprised. "You do?"

Mycroft nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. "Yes. I admit, I've never been one for holiday gatherings myself, but I find that I'm rather... looking forward to the prospect of celebrating with you. And if that means including a few others, well I suppose I can endure it."

Greg grinned, relief washing over him. "Really? You're sure?"

"Quite sure," Mycroft replied, his hand moving to cup Greg's cheek. "Though I do have one condition."

"Oh?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"I do not have to be the one to tell Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice low and warm.

Greg laughed. “Fair enough.”

Chapter Text

Greg shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable in the first-class cabin. He'd never flown first class before, and while it was certainly more spacious than economy, he still felt a bit out of place. Mycroft, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease, sipping a glass of champagne and reading through some papers.

"Relax, Gregory," Mycroft said without looking up. "You're fidgeting."

Greg let out a small laugh. "Sorry. Just not used to all this luxury, I suppose."

Mycroft set down his papers and turned to face Greg, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Well, you'd better get used to it. I refuse to fly any other way. I try to reserve the private plane for state emergencies."

"Of course you do," Greg muttered, but he was smiling.

As the plane began to taxi down the runway, Greg felt a sudden wave of nervousness. Not about flying. He was relatively foolhardy; he knew that travelling in a car posed more risk, that walking down the road and getting hit by a bus was more likely than a plane crash, and—worst of all—that the chances of being murdered in London were higher than dying in a car crash.

Instead, he found his stomach flipping and startling at the realisation that he was about to spend three days in oppulance in a city he only remembered from being six years old and dragged around by his mum and dad. Three days with Mycroft, who was approachable and beautiful when taken out of the context of his world. But who secretly terrified Greg a bit when in an official capacity; what had he been thinking? He could hardly be on the arm of this Posh Bastard, who flew first class as a matter of habit and who had preferred boutique hotels in Paris.

As the plane lifted off, Greg's fingers gripped the armrests tightly. Mycroft noticed and gently placed his hand over Greg's.

"You're not afraid of flying, are you?" Mycroft asked, his voice low and concerned.

Greg shook his head. "No, it's not that. It's just..." He trailed off, unsure how to express his anxieties without sounding ridiculous.

Mycroft studied him for a moment, his keen eyes taking in every detail of Greg's expression. "Ah," he said softly. "You're worried about the trip itself. About... us."

Greg nodded, feeling a bit foolish. "Yeah. I mean, this is all so new. And you're so... you. And I'm just...me."

"Yes? You are you. The man I want to spend these three days with," Mycroft interrupted, his voice firm but kind. “What is the issue?”

Greg sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. "Look, Mycroft, I'm just a cop from the Yard. I don't belong in this world of luxury hotels and first-class flights. I'm worried I'll embarrass you or say the wrong thing or use the wrong fork at dinner."

Mycroft's expression softened, and he squeezed Greg's hand gently. "Gregory, listen to me. You belong wherever I want you to be, and right now, that's here with me. I have never been one to care much about the expectations of this world I inhabit because of my job.”

Greg raised an eyebrow at him, and Mycroft chuckled before adding. “In fact, just this week I drank myself into a stupor at my parent’s dinner party.”

Greg couldn't help but laugh at the image of a drunk Mycroft at a posh family dinner. "I would've paid good money to see that."

Mycroft's lips quirked into a small smile. "I assure you, it was not my finest moment. But it does illustrate my point. I may inhabit this world of privilege, but I am not defined by it. And neither are you."

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "I invited you on this trip because I want to spend time with you, Gregory. Not some polished, upper-class version of you. Just you."

Greg felt warmth spreading through his chest at Mycroft's words. He turned his hand over, interlacing their fingers. "Okay. I will…attempt to remember that.”

The promise made easily while mid-air kept getting farther and farther from the surface of Greg’s mind as he was guided first into a fancy car at the airport, and then into a discreet hotel in the middle of the third arrondissement, into a room that overlooked a park and was slightly larger than his flat. His breath caught in his throat as his luggage followed them in and a tray was placed with yet more champagne on a small table. Mycroft, collected as always, took off his jacket and hung it in the closet before pouring from the bottle and approaching Greg, where he stood at the balcony looking out at the late afternoon skyline.

“How the fuck did you get a room like this, booking so late right before Christmas?” Greg asked quietly. He was carefully holding the railing in front of him. He felt slightly nauseous.

Mycroft shrugged, handing him a glass. “Favours and connections. It’s not a big deal. Please, do try to relax, Greg. You are on vacation.”

“I’m trying,” Greg insisted, though it was obvious to anyone that he was not.

“The suite has two bedrooms,” Mycroft said casually. “I just…did not want to presume.”

And everything in Greg snapped into a sudden, unnatural calm; this was, after all, Mycroft. They’d spoken at length now about how infrequently things like this happened for him. He knew that regardless of what it looked like, Mycroft was just as nervous as he was. Did it matter, in the end, if it was about entirely different things? Regardless of what happened next, Greg was going to stop panicking and just enjoy this. Enjoy Mycroft.

“That was very kind of you,” he whispered, pulling Mycroft close. “But I suspect we can work out sleeping in the same bed, don’t you think?”

Mycroft's eyebrows raised slightly, a flicker of pleasant surprise crossing his features. "I believe we can, yes," he murmured, his voice low and warm.

Greg felt some of the tension leave his body as he gazed into Mycroft's eyes. The nervousness wasn't gone entirely, but it had shifted into something more akin to excitement. He took a sip of the champagne, savoring the crisp bubbles on his tongue.

"So," Greg said, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice, "what does one do in Paris when one has connections and favors to call in?"

Mycroft's lips curved into a small smile. "Well, that rather depends on what one wants to do. We could have a private tour of the Louvre after hours, dine at the most exclusive restaurants, or simply wander the streets like any other tourist. The city is…rather freeing. The best bits are actually the ones that many in the echelon would insist are seedy.”

“You’ve spent a lot of time here?”

“By necessity. But yes, I do rather enjoy it here.”

“Well, that decides it,” he said brightly. “I want the Mycroft Holmes tour of Paris.”

Mycroft's eyes lit up with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. "The Mycroft Holmes tour of Paris? Are you certain? It might not be what you'd expect."

Greg grinned, feeling more relaxed than he had since they'd left London. "I'm counting on that. Come on, show me your Paris."

Mycroft set down his champagne glass and reached for Greg's hand. "Very well. We'll start with dinner. I know a little place in Montmartre that serves the most exquisite coq au vin you've ever tasted. It's run by an old friend of mine - a former assassin turned chef."

Greg's eyebrows shot up. "Former assassin?"

"Indeed. He's quite charming, actually. You'll like him," Mycroft said with a wink as he led Greg towards the door.

As they stepped out onto the street again, Greg felt his body float; Christmas lights lined far more balconies than they didn’t. There was a faint hint of snow in the air. He and Mycroft, without discussing it, linked hands again immediately. The walked to the Metro and when they reemerged, Greg found himself completely addicted to the small, banal smile that seemed to have stuck itself permanently to Mycroft’s face.

The streets of Montmartre were alive with energy as they climbed the winding cobblestone paths. Artists set up their easels, capturing the twinkling lights and charming architecture. Street musicians filled the air with the sounds of accordions and violins. Greg found himself enchanted by it all, stealing glances at Mycroft as they walked hand in hand.

"This is... incredible," Greg breathed, taking in the sights and sounds.

Mycroft's smile widened. "Wait until you see the view from the top."

As they reached the summit of the hill, the entirety of Paris stretched out before them, a sea of lights and history. Greg's breath caught in his throat at the beauty of it all.

"It never gets old," Mycroft murmured, squeezing Greg's hand.

They stood there for a moment, taking in the view, before Mycroft pulled him in close. Kissing him, he wrapped his arms around Greg’s waist. “I’m very glad you came,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Greg agreed. “Me too.”

They lingered at the viewpoint for a few more minutes, savouring the moment and the breathtaking vista. Then Mycroft gently tugged on Greg's hand, leading him down a narrow side street.

"The restaurant is just around the corner," he explained.

As they turned onto an even smaller alley, Greg spotted a tiny bistro nestled between two ancient buildings. The warm glow from its windows spilt out onto the cobblestones, and the aroma of rich French cuisine filled the air.

Mycroft pushed open the door, and a bell tinkled softly. The interior was cosy and intimate, with only a handful of tables. An imposing man with a neatly trimmed beard emerged from the kitchen, his face breaking into a wide grin when he saw Mycroft. As Mycroft was willingly enveloped in a giant bear hug and the two of them broke into rapid French that often seemed to be directed in Greg’s direction, Greg resigned himself to the fact that, for as long as he stayed near Mycroft Holmes, he was likely to be continually surprised.

Chapter Text

The night had been far less awkward than either of them had been prepared for; having never struggled to fall asleep at any time, in any place, Greg had simply changed for bed and curled into bed in Mycroft’s room. Mycroft had fussed about, showered unnecessarily, tried to delay getting into the bed for as long as he possibly could until finally, he caved to both exhaustion and curiosity. He’d woken eight hours later after the most restful sleep he’d had in well over a decade, draped in a warm, vanilla-tinged body who was snoring lightly and felt like home.

Mycroft blinked slowly, his mind still foggy with sleep. He found himself reluctant to move, savouring the unfamiliar yet comforting weight of Greg's arm draped across his chest. The early morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on Greg's silver hair.

For a moment, Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in the simple pleasure of observing Greg's peaceful face. The usual lines of stress and concentration were smoothed away, replaced by an expression of utter contentment. Mycroft felt a strange tightness in his chest, a mix of affection and fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

As if sensing Mycroft's gaze, Greg stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He looked up at Mycroft, a slow, sleepy smile spreading across his face. "Morning," he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Mycroft braced himself for the withdrawal, for Greg disappearing into the room at large, excited for a day in Paris. Instead, Greg snuggled down further into the covers, tucking his head against Mycroft’s shoulder and gripping him harder.

“I know we should get up, get out there and not waste the day,” Greg said. “But I don’t wanna. Not yet.”

Mycroft grinned a rare, unguarded expression that softened his usually stern features. "I find myself in complete agreement, Gregory," he murmured, surprising himself with the admission. He tentatively brought his hand up to rest on Greg's head, smoothing hair down and revelling in the warmth beneath his palm.

Greg hummed contentedly, the vibration reverberating through Mycroft's chest. "Good," he said, his breath ghosting across Mycroft's collarbone. "Because I reckon we've both earned a bit of a lie-in, yeah?"

Mycroft chuckled softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I suppose we have," he conceded, allowing himself to relax further into the embrace. The world outside their cocoon of warmth and comfort seemed distant and unimportant.

For a while, they lay in companionable silence, the gentle sounds of Paris just audible outside the windows; they said nothing of any import and Mycroft, who was not normally comfortable with the silence of others, could not imagine a more perfect scenario. He’d have happily stayed all day and was about to voice it when Greg’s stomach gave a loud grumble, making them both laugh.

“Two choices,” Mycroft whispered, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on Gregory’s forehead. “No wrong answers. We stay here, order room service, and barely move as we eat pastries with clotted cream and drink ridiculously indulgent coffee. Or, we go out to the cafe I had planned to take you to and eat croissants with more butter than should be legal and drink ridiculously indulgent coffee.”

Greg lifted his head, his brown eyes twinkling with mischief. "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Holmes," he said, pretending to consider the options seriously. "But I think I'm going to have to go with... both."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Both?"

"Mhm," Greg nodded, propping himself up on one elbow. "We start with room service. Pastries, clotted cream, the works. Then, when we've had our fill and can barely move, we'll force ourselves to get dressed and waddle down to that cafe of yours for round two."

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh, a rich, genuine sound that surprised even himself. "My dear Gregory, you are truly a man after my own heart."

Greg's expression softened, and he reached out to cup Mycroft's cheek.

Eventually, they made it out of the room; Mycroft, dressed in fine, soft wool, and Greg in his perfect green pea coat that made Mycroft want to devour him. They took a cab to Musée d'Orsay; for hours, they wandered, hand in hand, through the Manet, the Degas. By the time they had made it to the cafe, it was late afternoon and it was snowing. They ordered a tray of cheese and bread and wine and Mycroft wanted to sigh in the French way at the happy predictability of it all.

“What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he replied immediately, surprised. “There has never been anything less wrong with me in my entire life, I assure you. Why?”

“You seemed sad all of a sudden.”

Mycroft laughed. “It is l’ennui. I blame Paris. I swear, the melancholy is in the water.”

"Christmas does that to me, to be honest. It’s gorgeous while you’re doing things but if you stop to think too long…”

“Very true.”

“Do you ever think about what food you'd stockpile for the apocalypse?” Greg asked suddenly.

Mycroft laughed at the sudden change in topic, reached out and speared a cocktail gherkin with his tiny, trident-like fork.

“Chips,” he replied a moment later.

Now Greg laughed. “You can't stockpile chips, Mycroft,” he chastised. “Wouldn't work.”

“Ah, you misunderstand me,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “I don't want to survive the apocalypse. So I'd simply eat as many chips as possible before I die in the first wave.”

“What, seriously? What about rebuilding the planet and society and being a part of a ragtag bunch of survivors.”

“If I am part of an apocalyptic event, it means it is something that I could not have diplomatically prevented…nuclear war, perhaps. Or zombies. I don't want to survive those things. Quick. Peaceful. Perhaps even in a bathtub surrounded by many pints of good whiskey.”

“And chips.”

“And chips.”

“I am fascinated right now.” 

“Do I scare you, Monsieur Lestrade?”

Greg smiled, a sad, small thing. He reached across the table and took Mycroft’s hand. It was starting to be his favourite thing in the world, these moments when Greg reached across time and space and held onto Mycroft like he may be drowning.

“Only because I can't imagine…dying,” he said quietly. “It's quite boring, I know. Fear of death. You'd think you'd get over that, being a front-line worker.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft insisted, rubbing a thumb along the back of Greg’s hand. “Mortality is one of the most complicated tenets of reality. A healthy fear of it is very intelligent and logical. My fears are simply placed in other parts of humanity. “

“Such as?”

“Hmm. Well. The vast emptiness of space. Being alone for too long. The fact that humanity may, in fact, be fundamentally evil.”

Greg’s mouth turned down, sad and contemplative. “I see.” 

“And spiders of course,” Mycroft added.

Greg’s face broke open in a grin. “Well, yeah, spiders are just plain creepy, aren't they?”

Mycroft chuckled, grateful for the lightening of the mood. "Indeed they are."

The sound of clinking glasses and soft laughter filled the cosy café as they enjoyed their wine and cheese, savouring each bite and sip. The snowflakes danced down from the dark sky, coating Paris in a layer of pure white. As they chatted about lighthearted topics, the warm glow of the fire in the corner cast a comforting ambience over the room. When it was time to leave, Greg reached for Mycroft's hand, their fingers intertwining naturally as he pulled him close. The city was quiet and peaceful under its snowy blanket, but in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter; Mycroft’s body thrummed with a tension he hadn’t noticed until moments ago. Greg looked at him with an intensity he hadn’t anticipated.

Mycroft found himself hyper-aware of every point of contact between them - their joined hands, the brush of Greg's shoulder against his as they walked, the occasional bump of their hips. The wine had left a pleasant warmth in his chest, but it was nothing compared to the heat building within him at Greg's proximity. Finally, Greg cleared his throat.

"This was a lovely day. But. Back to the hotel?" Greg asked, his voice low and husky.

Mycroft felt a flutter in his stomach, anticipation building. "Yes, I think that would be wise."

The taxi ride back was charged with unspoken tension. In the elevator, Greg pressed closer to Mycroft, their bodies nearly touching. As soon as the door to their room closed behind them, Greg turned to Mycroft, his eyes dark with desire.

"Mycroft," he breathed, stepping forward. "I want..."

"Yes,” Mycroft replied simply. It was a wonder they’d made it this far. This long. He felt that at any moment, his heart might explode.

It is too early, Mycroft. Stop. Calm. Don’t. Just let the man in. Let this be casual. Let this be real.

Greg closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to frame Mycroft's face. For a moment, they simply stood there, breath mingling, eyes locked. Then Greg leaned in, pressing his lips to Mycroft's in a kiss that was both tender and urgent. Mycroft responded immediately, his arms wrapping around Greg's waist, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, tongues exploring, hands roaming. Greg's fingers tangled in Mycroft's hair as Mycroft's hands slipped under Greg's jumper, caressing warm skin. They stumbled towards the bed, shedding clothing as they went. Greg's jumper hit the floor, followed by Mycroft's waistcoat and shirt. When the back of Mycroft's knees hit the edge of the mattress, he sat down, pulling Greg with him.

Greg straddled Mycroft's lap, dragging his hands above his head with a laugh.

“Mycroft,” he grinned. “Listen. This is ludicrous, but I can’t…I can’t do this without saying it.”

“Hmm?” Mycroft prompted, his brain far too far ahead in the proceedings to form words.

Greg took a deep breath, his eyes searching Mycroft's face. "I think I'm falling in love with you," he said softly. "And I know it's fast, and maybe it's just the romance of Paris, but... I needed you to know."

Mycroft felt his breath catch in his throat. For a moment, he was utterly still, processing Greg's words. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. "Gregory," he murmured, reaching up to cup Greg's cheek. "My dear Gregory. I believe I've already fallen."

Greg's eyes widened, a mix of surprise and joy dancing across his features. He leaned down, capturing Mycroft's lips in a kiss full of security and affection. When they parted, both slightly breathless, Greg rested his forehead against Mycroft's.

"Well then," Greg said in a reverent whisper, beaming. “Thank god for that.”

He pressed their bodies back together at the same time as Mycroft tried to relieve him of his trousers and they dissolved into giggles before even the laughter faded into something more intense, more heated. Mycroft's hands trembled slightly as they worked at Greg's belt, fumbling with the buckle in a way that was so endearingly human that Greg couldn't help but smile. He covered Mycroft's hands with his own, steadying them, and together they managed to undo the belt and zipper. As Greg stood to shimmy out of his trousers, Mycroft took a moment to drink in the sight of him - all tanned skin and lean muscle, peppered with scars that told stories of a life lived bravely. Greg caught him staring and grinned, a hint of shyness creeping into his expression.

"Like what you see?" he asked, his voice husky.

Mycroft nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He reached out, running his hands along Greg's sides, marvelling at the warmth of his skin.

As the first light of dawn crept through the curtains, Mycroft stirred, slowly becoming aware of the warm body pressed against his side. He blinked, memories of the previous night flooding back, bringing a smile to his lips. Greg was still fast asleep, his silver hair tousled, face peaceful. Mycroft allowed himself a moment to simply observe, to savour this newfound intimacy. He traced the lines of Greg's face with his eyes, memorizing every detail.

Chapter Text

They'd scheduled the return flight extremely late, considering Mycroft was expected to host the orphans of London the next day, but Greg still looked morose. 

“I tried to warn you,” Mycroft said soothingly, gripping Greg's arm where it rested on the armrest. “Paris. It gets under your skin.” 

“I just want to move here and learn French and become hilariously addicted to buttered bread and never again see the grey of a London rain or deal with the Thames smelling.” 

Mycroft chuckled. “One summer in Paris would cure you of that delusion. Tourist season, forty-degree weather, and the smell of the Seine? Trust me, detective. The grass is not greener.” 

“Christmas goggles on, huh?” Greg allowed ruefully, bending to rest his head on Mycroft's shoulder in the fuzzy dark of the plane. 

“Afraid so,” Mycroft sighed, leaning down to meet Greg's head with his own. “Did you decide if you're going home?” 

“I don't want to, but I think I should. Brush a cloth over some surfaces, get more clothing. But I'll be at yours tomorrow, bright and early. Don't worry, Posh. I'm well aware that this party is my fault. I won't leave you alone.” 

Mycroft merely smiled, and ended up dozing in his seat, head resting on Greg's for most of the hour-long flight. 

When they separated into two large black cars at Heathrow, Mycroft's affect relaxed immediately into one of complete lack of emotion. He'd had an excellent time. A fabulous three days. And yet, the exhaustion of spending three days with another person settled over his shoulders. After a quick thirty seconds of contemplating, he decided that this was not something to dwell on. Travel wearied even the most extroverted of people; time away from one's bed, their own city. The attempt to soak in as much of the new place as possible. The fact that you knew only your travel companions. It was normal. Mycroft would not panic. 

Until, of course, he got home and panicked. 

He'd made it through showering and unpacking, through a final cup of tea, taken in bed as he casually perused his emails. He'd shut off his bedside lamp and was attempting to fall asleep when his brain decided to spiral. 

He weighed his options carefully and then sent a text to Anthea. Of all the people on the very small list of people he could message, she was both the least appropriate and the most likely to answer. When she called him instead of answering, he sighed, full of regret. 

“That's ridiculous,” she said by way of greeting. “You're being ridiculous.” 

“I am not sure if I am. What does this tell me if not that I am incapable of being in a long-term relationship with another person?” 

“That you have the perfectly human right to require space once in a while? That travel is exhausting, especially with a new person? That travel at Christmas is a fool's errand. Why d'you think he went home, Mycroft?” 

“He needed clothes and—” 

“Mycroft,” Anthea sighed. 

“Oh.” 

“Exactly. Now may I go to sleep?” 

“Are you still—” 

“I shall be there at five, with a cheese platter and an appropriately stupid £15 gift. Did you have fun?” 

Mycroft felt himself blush. They had, of course, had fun . Anthea chuckled. 

“Thank God for that man. You've become remarkably human in the past three weeks. I'm utterly enamoured.” 

Mycroft smiled down the phone and scrubbed his face. “I am trying not to take that as an insult.” 

“Mr Holmes? Please go to sleep. Life's insecurities will still be there in the morning.” 

He hung up the phone and had just placed it down when it pinged. 

G'night, Posh. Fantastic being in your own bed, isn't it? Thanks for this week. Seems dumb to say. But. Yeah. Thanks. 

Goodnight Gregory. Two tomorrow? 

Not a minute later - Xx 

Mycroft smiled and forced himself to drift to sleep in his too-large, too-quiet bed.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Mycroft awoke to the sound of his alarm, feeling more refreshed than he'd expected. As he went through his morning routine, he found himself humming to himself. The panic of the previous night seemed distant now, replaced by a quiet anticipation for the day ahead.

He was halfway through his second cup of tea when his phone buzzed.

Morning, sunshine. Still on for two?

Indeed. I trust you slept well?

Like a log. Amazing what your own pillow can do :)

As Mycroft began preparations for the party, he found himself frequently glancing at the clock. At precisely 1:58 PM, the doorbell rang. He opened it to find Greg, looking slightly dishevelled but grinning widely.

"Brought reinforcements," he grinned, holding up a large carry bag that clanked suspiciously and made Greg chuckle. “I’m going to make us a cocktail while you pretend that there are still things around here that require cleaning.”

Mycroft laughed at the taunt; he did, in fact, have a rag on his kitchen counter that he may have been using to wipe down already spotless marble. Parties of any sort made him uneasy. Parties that Sherlock would be attending made him utterly anxious. Greg traipsed his path to the kitchen and started pulling supplies from cupboards without asking for help. He was sure that Greg had not spent enough time in his kitchen to be doing this so effortlessly, but he said nothing as a cranberry-based something was created and placed in front of him.

“Cheers, darling!” Greg said, clinking their glasses together when Mycroft picked his up. “Merry Christmas and all that. Thanks. For this. For the party?”

“You do not have to thank me,” Mycroft said, smiling delicately. “Christmas Eve with our friends was a very reasonable request.”

“Maybe,” Greg allowed. “But still. Haven’t…um. Haven’t had the best Christmases the past few years. So the gratitude is flowing pretty freely at the moment. I suggest you just go with it.”

Greg’s face turned a violent shade of red as he sipped at his drink; Mycroft moved around the island to wrap him in a warm and intentional embrace. He let him go and reached past him to turn on the stereo. Unnecessarily cheery Christmas classics began to flow into the space around them and made Greg laugh.

“Doing this as a potluck was inspired,” Greg said lightly. “We have time to just go and sit. Come.”

Mycroft allowed himself to be led to the living room, where Greg pulled him down onto the sofa. They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, sipping their drinks and listening to the festive music.

"So," Greg said, breaking the quiet. "How long before you start fretting about everything being perfect?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I do not fret."

Greg laughed, a warm, rich sound that made Mycroft's heart skip. "Course not. You just... meticulously plan and execute with military precision."

"Precisely," Mycroft nodded, fighting a smile.

Greg leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "Well, I'm here to make sure you don't get too caught up in the details. It's Christmas, darlin. It's meant to be a bit messy."

Mycroft turned to face Greg and grinned. “Ah, the calm of a man who has never endured a holiday with Sherlock. What bliss that must be.”

Greg reached out and smoothed down hair beside Mycroft’s ear, leaving his hand there a moment. “So dramatic,” he teased.

He turned himself around and tucked into Mycroft’s side, leaving him no choice but to curl around him and hold on tight.

“Turn on that fantastic little fire you have. We can pretend no one is coming.”

“Mycroft, let’s have an orphan's Christmas,” Mycroft teased, clicking the button and flaring the electric fire to life. “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh stop,” Greg laughed, snuggling in and exhaling a contented sigh. “I brought games. And a stupid white elephant gift. We’ll kick them out at nine. Relax.”

"Nine, you say?" Mycroft mused. "That seems rather optimistic."

Greg tilted his head up to look at Mycroft. "Alright, ten then. But not a minute later. I have plans for you, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft just smiled. “Promises, promises.”

As they sat cuddled together on the sofa, the warmth of the fire and Greg's presence slowly melted away Mycroft's tension. He found himself actually looking forward to the evening ahead, a feeling that surprised him.

"You know," Mycroft mused, running his fingers through Greg's silver hair, "I believe this may be the first Christmas party I've ever genuinely wanted to host."

Greg tilted his head up, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, I'm honoured to be the cause of such a monumental shift."

"As you should be," Mycroft replied dryly, earning another chuckle from Greg.

The doorbell chimed, signalling the arrival of their first guests. Greg groaned softly but made no move to get up.

"That'll be John and Molly," he said. "Sherlock texted earlier saying they were coming on ahead. I’ll get it. You go pour…something.”

“I think I can manage that.”

The door opened and closed in succession for another forty minutes, until Sherlock, predictably last and in a strange, sullen mood, arrived. The music was turned down at some point, though it continued to simper its way through the house. The kitchen was filled with a variety of appetizers and charcuterie, and Mycroft busied himself at their makeshift bar, keeping firmly in the background of the motly crew that assembled around the house. They settled in the living room, perched on various pieces of furniture, and he watched from the doorway as Greg became an incandescent host. He grinned and told jokes, and stories that meandered and led to full-blown conversations and arguments. At some point, someone (possibly Anthea, confusing them all), demanded the gift exchange begin. They stole wrapped presents from each other until Greg declared an end, and unwrapped a wide variety of utterly useless objects that seemed to bring untold joy to everyone but the Holmes brothers present.

At some point, Lydia had ended up in Anthea’s lap and John had migrated to the floor to lean against Sherlock’s long legs as he perched in the armchair. Greg had pulled Mycroft down onto the sofa beside him and Molly was set at the other end, curled into a comfortable ball. They descended into a quiet, satisfied sort of lull for a few minutes and Anthea sighed.

“D’you know,” she said quietly. “I haven’t enjoyed Christmas much in a very long time. This was a good idea, you two. No family fights. No giant dinners. Thank you.”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

Mycroft felt a warmth spread through his chest at Anthea's words. He glanced around the room, taking in the sight of their friends - chosen family - relaxed and content in his home. It was a scene he never thought he'd witness, let alone be a part of.

"I believe the credit for this gathering goes entirely to Gregory," Mycroft said softly, squeezing Greg's hand. "He's the one who suggested it."

Greg shook his head, a fond smile on his face. "Nah, it was a team effort. Couldn't have done it without you."

Sherlock, surprisingly, didn't scoff or make a sarcastic comment. Instead, he looked thoughtful, his fingers absently carding through John's hair. "It is... not unpleasant," he admitted grudgingly.

John chuckled, tilting his head against Sherlock’s knee. “My god,” he declared. “You’ve managed to content a Sherlock. Witchcraft.”

“So,” Anthea said. “That being said, I’m off, I think. Unfortunately, I do have to do my parent’s rather chaotic Christmas lunch tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk to the station with you,” Lydia said, uncharacteristically quiet. Both women grinned at each other and Mycroft, staring in amusement, revelled in Anthea’s blush.

“We should go too, Sherlock. Molly, want a ride home? We can share a car.”

“Cheers,” she said, unwinding herself from the sofa.

As the guests began to gather their things and make their way to the door, Mycroft found himself experiencing an unexpected twinge of sadness. The evening had been far more enjoyable than he'd anticipated, and a part of him was reluctant to see it end. Greg seemed to sense his mood, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's waist as they stood by the door, bidding their friends goodbye.

"See?" he murmured. "Told you it'd be fine."

Mycroft hummed in agreement, leaning slightly into Greg's touch. "Indeed. Your powers of prediction are quite impressive."

Once the last guest had departed and the door was firmly shut, Greg turned to face Mycroft, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Now then, Mr. Holmes. I believe I made you a promise about plans for after the party."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen is a disaster, there are glasses all over the living room and—”

“And it will all still be there in the morning,” Greg teased. “Come now. Surely you aren’t going to make me clean on Christmas. I think I can find a much better use of our time.”

“Oh really,” Mycroft replied, letting the lascivious grin he’d been holding back release itself. “Like what?”

“Well, for one, I have never seen your bedroom. I need to know exactly how posh it is, Posh.”

Mycroft chuckled a low, warm sound that sent a shiver down Greg's spine. "Well then, Detective Inspector, perhaps we should remedy that oversight immediately."

With a playful tug on Greg's hand, Mycroft led him up the stairs. The bedroom, when they entered, was indeed as posh as Greg had imagined - all dark wood and rich fabrics, with a bed that was sinfully comfortable. He was slightly embarrassed to let Greg see this place, after all the discomfort with first class in Paris. But Greg’s grin was so predatory, so blatantly aroused, that he quickly let it go.

"Satisfied with your inspection?" Mycroft asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

Greg grinned, pulling Mycroft close. "Oh, I've only just begun my investigation, Mr. Holmes. I think this calls for a very thorough examination."

Their lips met in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened, tension and gratitude that were no less satisfying than the past few days. Greg's hands roamed over Mycroft's back, untucking his shirt as Mycroft pushed them back into the room.

As they fell onto the bed together, Mycroft couldn't help but marvel at how natural this felt. Despite his earlier anxieties, being with Greg like this - intimate, vulnerable - felt right in a way he'd never experienced before.

Greg's hands were everywhere, exploring and caressing as they shed layers of clothing. Mycroft revelled in the feeling of skin against skin, the warmth of Greg's body pressed against his own. Their kisses grew more heated, more urgent. Soft gasps and murmured endearments filled the air as they moved together, exploring each other's bodies with reverent touches and tender caresses.

As they lay tangled together, Greg's head resting on Mycroft's chest, he sighed contentedly.

"Merry Christmas, Mycroft," Greg murmured sleepily. “I’m staying, by the way. Can’t make me leave.”

Mycroft felt a warmth bloom in his chest at Greg's words. "I wouldn't dream of it," he replied softly, pressing a kiss to Greg's forehead.

They lay in comfortable silence for a while, the gentle rise and fall of their breathing the only sound in the room. Mycroft found himself marvelling at how quickly Greg had become such an integral part of his life. Just a few short weeks ago, he would have baulked at the idea of someone staying over, let alone sharing such an intimate moment. Now, he couldn't imagine it any other way. He fell into an easy, gentle sleep.

As the first light of Christmas morning began to filter through the curtains, Greg stirred, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Mycroft, who was already awake and reading on his phone. His eyes were soft, a gentle smile playing on his lips.

"You know," Greg said, his voice still husky from sleep. "I think this might be the best Christmas I’ve had.”

“You’re only saying that because of Paris.”

“I know you’re teasing,” Greg replied seriously. “But Mycroft? I mean it. You know it’s you, right?”

Mycroft felt his breath catch in his throat at Greg's words. He searched Greg's face, looking for any hint of insincerity, but found only warmth and honesty in those deep eyes.

"I..." Mycroft started, then paused, unsure how to articulate the swirl of emotions in his chest. "Gregory, I... feel the same way."

Chapter Text

Five years later 

Mycroft woke up with what would distinctly be considered a hangover, if he were the sort of man who allowed that type of thing. He rolled over with a groan that belied just how old he was. His body had certainly not been capable of making that type of sound ten years ago. His roll, unfortunately, put an arm  directly into Greg's ribs, which resulted in an almost comical ‘ouph’. 

“What was that for,” he grumbled, cheek still largely engulfed by his pillow. 

“Accident,” Mycroft grumbled. 

“Ooo, excellent,” Greg declared with a cheeky grin that Mycroft could hear, even if he had not yet seen it because his eyes were not strictly classified as ‘open’. “You're hungover. You deserve that, you do. ‘I never drink to excess, Greg’.” 

“Love of my heart, light of my life, please, do not mock me in my hour of need. I shall surely die this day.” 

“I tried to remind you of the several incidents you've had with your parent's brandy. Tried to tell you, Mycroft, we are not twenty. Mycroft, we do not need to mix whiskey and brandy with champagne. Mycroft, you're going to regret this tomorrow. But no. The great intellect of Mycroft Bloody Holmes needed no advice.” 

Mycroft felt the bed dip and the darkness of Greg's body shifted across him. A moment later, the shadow and the weight were gone again, replaced by objects on his chest. 

“Water. Electrolyte powder. Paracetamol. Take them. I'm still sleeping.” 

Mycroft groaned in what he hoped was a grateful way and took the meds with the water before mixing the lemon powder in and downing as much as he thought wise without throwing up. 

“Do we know how many people are still here?” 

“I do,” Greg grumbled. “Shh. Sleeping. Too early.” 

Mycroft let himself fade in and out for a while while Greg snored beside him. He dreamed, in that waking groggy way that you do sometimes, that the turkey they had cooked last night had come back to murder them all. He and Greg had only escaped by hiding in the pantry. He jolted awake just as the gobbling got closer and found Greg staring at him with a grin. 

“Seemed like a good one,” he said. “Morning again.” 

“Murderous turkey.” 

Greg laughed, reaching out to push back Mycroft's fringe. “Your mind. Sherlock and John in the red room, Anthea and Lyds in Duckworth. Your parents went home around nine. Molly stayed on the sofa after flat refusing to leave with the horrible boyfriend.” 

Mycroft winced. “Do we have any responsibility there?” 

“Strictly speaking, no, but since she ended up sobbing in my arms for half an hour at three am, I may have said some stuff I don't regret.” 

“I best get up and make them some breakfast, then.”

“Oh, you noble, clueless idiot. I had breakfast items delivered with the catering yesterday. We have a variety of quiches, a muffin array, and some bacon that just has to get popped in the heat for ten or so. Relax. I'm going to go put the coffee on though. Go shower.” 

“I love you more than life itself, Gregory Lestrade. Epics should be written about you. Songs and plays shall be performed for generations. Your effigy shall be erected in every town square in England.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg said, now standing but leaning in to kiss him. “Happy Christmas, you lunatic.” 

Mycroft smiled.

“Happy Christmas. Come shower with me?" he said hopefully, ignoring his head for a moment. "The coffee can wait.” 

“And listen to your brother deduce what we do in there? Not on your life, Holmes.” 

Mycroft sighed, but conceded the point. He sat up and waited for the dizziness to pass. 

“Speaking of things I don't need your brother being a part of,” Greg added, pulling open a dresser drawer and tossing something onto the bed in front of him. “Love you.” 

The gift was wrapped in a very Lestrade manner. In that, it was technically covered completely. Technically. 

Mycroft smiled. “Do you want yours now too?”

Greg shrugged. “Just don't think you need to open this one in front of all the people.”

Mycroft's curiosity was piqued. He carefully unwrapped the gift, his fingers trembling slightly as he peeled back the paper. Inside was a small, velvet box. His heart skipped a beat as he opened it, revealing a simple yet elegant platinum band.

"Gregory," he breathed, looking up at his partner with wide eyes.

Greg smiled softly, a hint of nervousness in his expression. "I know we've talked about this before, and I know you said you didn't need a ring or a ceremony. But I wanted you to have something tangible, something to remind you every day that I'm yours, completely and utterly."

Mycroft felt a lump form in his throat as he gently removed the ring from its box. He slipped it onto his finger, marvelling at how perfectly it fit.

"It's beautiful," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I—well, I’m a little embarrassed by your gift, now.”
Mycroft reached into the drawer beside him and pulled out a small, flat package.

Greg took the package from Mycroft with a curious smile, carefully unwrapping it. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its cover embossed with Greg's initials.

"Open it," Mycroft urged softly.

Greg flipped open the cover to find Mycroft's elegant handwriting filling the pages. As he read, his eyes widened, and a blush crept up his neck.

Greg flipped through more pages,

"Mycroft," he breathed, "this is..."

"A record of every moment I've fallen in love with you," Mycroft finished for him. "From our first meeting to yesterday evening when you insisted on helping with the dishes despite being our guests' host."

Greg's fingers traced the words on the page, his eyes glistening. "There must be hundreds of entries here."

"Seven hundred and forty-two, to be precise," Mycroft said, with a hint of pride.

“Our first meeting?”

“Well, not the exact first. I believe the first may have been a case. I apologise for that. But.”

Greg flipped through the pages until he found the chronologically first entry. “The fucking cigarette?” Greg whispered, his voice small and cautious. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked back at Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded, a faint blush colouring his cheeks. "Yes, the cigarette. I remember it vividly. You were standing outside that party and you just looked so utterly exhausted. Done. I was there to deal with Sherlock, and I was…quite out of sorts. You offered me a cigarette, even though I had accidentally inserted myself into your break from humanity."

Greg's eyes softened as he recalled the moment. "I remember thinking how out of place you looked, all posh and put-together, standing there in that street light. You were ethereal."

"And you didn't hesitate to share with me," Mycroft said, his voice warm with affection. "That small act of kindness... it struck me. In my world, people rarely did anything without expecting something in return. But you, Gregory, you gave freely."

“That’s…Mycroft, that’s so stupid,” he teased. “We spoke for less than five minutes.”

Mycroft shrugged.

"Perhaps," he conceded with a small smile. "But it was the first time I truly saw you. Not just as Sherlock's handler or a useful police contact, but as a person. A kind, compassionate soul who would offer comfort to a stranger." 

Greg's fingers traced the words on the page, a soft smile playing on his lips. "And you remembered all these moments? Wrote them all down?"

Mycroft nodded. "I started shortly after we began dating. I wanted to document every little thing that made me fall for you again and again. It became a habit, almost a meditation of sorts."

"This is..." Greg's voice trailed off, overcome with emotion. He looked up at Mycroft, his eyes shining. "This is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever given me."

Mycroft reached out, cupping Greg's face in his hand. “We are the most beautiful thing. Okay. Let’s go. This has gotten far, far too sentimental. I fear I may be sick.”

Greg chuckled, leaning into Mycroft's touch. "Alright, you big softie. Let's go face the music downstairs."

When they finally made their way down, the smell of coffee wafted up to greet them. Molly was already in the kitchen, her eyes puffy but her smile genuine as she poured two mugs.

"Morning," she said softly. "I hope you don't mind, I started the coffee."

"Not at all," Mycroft replied, accepting a mug gratefully. "How are you feeling?"

Molly's smile faltered slightly. "I'm okay. Thank you both for last night. I'm sorry for the drama."

Greg placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Hey, no apologies needed. That's what friends are for."

The sound of footsteps announced Sherlock and John's arrival. John was dressed in an overlarge robe and had plaid slippers on his feet. He was also far too cheerful for the hour, the circumstance, and the fact that they were all slightly hungover.“Happy Christmas, everyone!”

“Can’t you make him be silent?” Lydia groaned, following them into the kitchen, Anthea- fully dressed and slightly murderous in appearance - in tow.

“I have not worked it out yet, unfortunately,” Sherlock said lethargically, dropping into a seat at the table and offering a rare smile to Molly for the coffee she placed in front of him.

Mycroft observed the scene before him with a mixture of amusement and contentment. The kitchen, usually his domain of solitude and precise culinary execution, was now filled with the warmth of family and friends. Even in their varying states of dishevelment and hangover, there was an undeniable air of comfort and belonging. 

"Right then," Greg said, clapping his hands together. "Who's for quiche?"

A chorus of groans and mumbled affirmatives answered him. Mycroft moved to help, but Greg shooed him away with a fond smile. "Sit, love. I've got this."