Work Text:
“Can’t believe I’m just now seeing this…it’s been out for years.” Greg sat down, taking a sip of his ale and nudged Mycroft’s elbow, “Sure you don’t mind watching it with me while you work?”
Mycroft smiled, “I should be able to follow the plot whilst I read this.” He glanced up at the screen, where Daniel Craig was looking dapper, dangerous, and yet had nothing on the man sitting next to him. “Hard for me to believe you’ve seen nearly every Bond film made, yet never read a single of Fleming’s novels.”
It had been a nasty spring day, and the fire was burning softly, taking the chill out of the air, and lending a rather romantic air to their evening. No, he corrected himself, not romantic. That was not the nature of their…association. In fact, a cozy night in watching films was hardly their normal speed either.
Normally they came together in haste, lust burning through them like a quick-burning fuse, liable to set off an explosion at any time. It had not escaped Mycroft’s notice that lately, interspersed in their highly charged sexual encounters, were moments of quiet peace and hominess…almost tenderness.
“I wasn’t much of a reader, growing up,” Greg laughed, “And nowadays I’m lucky if I have time to fall asleep in front of the telly at night, much less read. I suppose you’ve read all of them?”
“Not quite all,” Mycroft laughed, accepting a sip of the ale Greg offered him, “Although I was quite fond of the tales when I was younger.” Sherlock had his pirates and he had his spies.
“Knew you wanted to be a spy from the time you were a nipper, then, eh?”
“They’re not spies, they’re agents,” Mycroft said primly, waving away more ale, and turning back to his work, “And I have explained before that any field work I did was in the past, and not nearly as exciting as Hollywood would have you believe.” Not the stuff that was for public consumption anyway. His classified excursions, on the other hand…
“And I still maintain you’re full of shit,” Greg grinned, and leaned back to watch his film. Mycroft let his glance linger, memorizing the play of firelight on the other man’s features, the warm amber gleam in his espresso eyes, the faint rosy tint the lamps leant to his extraordinary silver hair. Mycroft longed to touch it, to stroke the glowing strands, but he was not so comfortable initiating physical contact when it wasn’t purely about sex. Reminding himself that he had business to attend to, Mycroft fixed his eyes firmly on his laptop.
“He’s gawky but gorgeous,” Greg commented idly, sometime later, fingers lightly stroking Mycroft’s knee.
“Hmm?” Mycroft asked absently, looking up from his laptop, having nearly forgotten what the real world had to offer. They were in his lounge; Skyfall on the large flat screen, Greg in his comfiest joggers and t-shirt, lounging like a rumpled courtesan, while beside him Mycroft still wore his work clothes and was concentrating more on the Chinese transcripts his team had sent through half an hour before, than he was on the film. It was dangerously, seductively easy. He felt a frown tugging at their peace as his sub-conscious picked up an alert in Greg’s words, and suddenly he paid closer attention. “To whom are you referring?”
“The young chap,” Greg said, and Mycroft focused on the screen and the young man with an oversized anorak, improbably well-behaved curls and specs. Aside from the fact that he hadn’t been quite that thin, nor so ethereally attractive, the young man bore a strong resemblance to himself during his days at King’s.
“I didn’t know he was your type,” Mycroft said, aware of how snippy and jealous he sounded even as the words left his mouth. He couldn’t help himself; Greg was the very model of male beauty, a charming, funny, warm-hearted, generous and canny man. Mycroft was well aware of how dissimilar they were, how very unlikely their union would appear to outsiders—if there had been any outsiders. But there were none; not just for security purposes, but also to assuage his own deep-seated personal need for privacy.
Listening not just to his words, but to his tone—the man was very intuitive about people, and even more so when it came to Mycroft—Greg pressed pause and tossed the remote aside, turning to face Mycroft better, tucking one leg under him. “Babe, hey—no. C’mon now, you know I prefer my geniuses with style, elegance and with just a touch of ginger.” He ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, where the auburn was beginning to show. It was past time for a session with Alberto.
“You can’t deny he’s young.” More vulnerability than he was comfortable with displaying, even with Greg, bled through.
Greg shrugged, eyes soft, “I deal with young men all day long, Myc. Suspects, criminals, witnesses, newbies on the team.” A smile quirked the corner of his mouth, and he took Mycroft’s hand, “I don’t have much use for young men…or men in general…just you.”
Mycroft let himself be coaxed into a kiss and sighed soundlessly, setting aside his laptop and pulling Greg’s legs over his. Bending his lo—bending Greg—back against the cushions, he set about distracting the other man from the film and himself from his fears.
Babe, he thought, lips lightly sucking on Greg’s neck, he uses it so freely. Is it with everyone, or just me? His thoughts tried to pull him back in the darkness of his bottomless insecurity, but he fought them. There was no way that this, whatever it actually was, between them, was going to last…but while it did, he intended on savouring every moment. Eventually his job—even Greg’s—would come between them. Or Sherlock would find a way to ruin it. Or Greg would decide Mycroft wasn’t worth the trouble and secrecy. Or he’d opt for the social ease and professional transparency of pursuing a relationship with a woman.
This could not possibly last.
******
“When I said I wanted to spend my hols somewhere warm, this wasn’t what I had in mind,” Greg groaned, blotting his forehead on his equally sweaty forearm.
“Surely, without anyone notifying me, England has broken loose and is now situated over the equator,” Mycroft fanned himself with his menu, for once wishing that he owned more casual clothing. Although he could hardly picture himself in chinos and a short-sleeved sport shirt; still, the idea had merit. As it was he was entirely uncomfortable sans jacket and tie, with his shirt sleeves rolled up. But his uneasiness with his unusual state of dress was more than made up for by the look in Greg’s eyes when he looked at Mycroft’s bare forearms, or let his eyes linger on the damp hollow of Mycroft’s throat.
July in London had been brutal, with the highs shattering records for the past fifty years. The populace seemed to have gone mad, crime on the rise, tempers flaring, absenteeism flourishing. Everywhere Mycroft looked there were pale City dwellers suddenly displaying far too much of their virgin flesh to the merciless sun. His umbrella had come in very useful at blocking the worst of it; it certainly wasn’t being needed against rain showers, which had been few and far between.
“You didn’t have to stay in town,” Mycroft reminded him.
“I had my reasons,” Greg smiled at him, making it clear that at least one of those reasons was sitting across the table from him.
His own schedule scarcely permitted holidays—although once a year Anthea barred him from the office and had Comms turn off his work mobile and disable his emails. “For your own good, Mycroft,” she always said firmly. He could have dismissed her for her effrontery, and easily have had her replaced with yet another ruthlessly efficient and terrifyingly intelligent assistant, but the truth was, he valued her for her subtle yet snarky sense of humour, and the lack of awe with which she treated him.
It could get rather lonely being the most dangerous man in Britain. Aside from his parents, Sherlock, Doctor Watson and Anthea, the only other person who didn’t treat him as if he were going to have them carted to a remote prison where they would never again see the light of day was sitting across from him. “If I were to find myself with a few free days this weekend,” Mycroft suggested carefully, “would you be interested in joining me in Reykjavik?”
Greg’s eyebrows rose nearly to the slightly wilted spikes of his normally exuberant fringe, “Iceland?”
“It is blessedly cooler there,” Mycroft pointed out, “at least twenty degrees, and it would only take a few hours to fly.”
The temptation was clear. But so was the denial, which he could see coming before the other man had even opened his mouth. “It sounds great, Myc, really it does. But last minute tickets must be fairly expensive, and I’m trying to save up for a new flat.”
“You would be my guest,” Mycroft said smoothly, cutting dangerous eyes to the approaching waiter, who veered off sharply. The sleek brunette at a discreet corner table raised amused eyebrows without ever looking up from her mobile; Mycroft firmly ignored her. He was suddenly quite desperate for Greg to join him. The idea of a holiday had never appealed like this before. “As such I would arrange travel.”
Eyes soft, Greg started to reach across the table, but stopped, awkwardly fiddling with the little basket of sweeteners as he recalled that they weren’t supposed to touch in public. One of the conditions of their…agreement…was that they would only ever appear to be acquaintances. I want to hold your hand, Mycroft thought, watching the fumble of Greg’s fingers, imagining the firm warmth of his palm pressed to his own, thought about tonguing the texture of the other man’s cuticles, breathing in the scent of his skin. There were too many eyes in London…but in Iceland they could be just two anonymous tourists, allowed a little freedom of touch and expression.
Before he could stop himself, Mycroft leaned across the table, “I want to be able to hold your hand. To sit next to you in a booth and not pretend we’re little more than casual friends.” His tone was too fervent, his body language telegraphing too much eagerness, but he found himself unwilling to back down. He very much wanted this.
“I’d normally say at least let’s split the cost of the hotel room, but somehow I don’t see you as the type to stay in a Holiday Inn.” Mycroft opened his mouth, but Greg flashed him a grin, “Oh, the look of horror on your face, Mr. Holmes.”
He smiled tentatively, “Does that mean you’re willing to accompany me?” It was frankly astounding that he couldn’t read it for himself; but as he’d always warned his brother, sentiment was dangerous. It clouded judgement, obscured clear thought and seriously derailed one’s plans for the weekend. Luckily he had Anthea for an assistant, and she could work near miracles. For once he wouldn’t be the one surprised with last minute plans.
For just a moment Greg let his hand rest alongside the one Mycroft hadn’t even been aware of stretching out, and his pinkie touched Mycroft’s thumb. A thrill of awareness and desire coursed through him and he very nearly overcame his instincts, training, and good sense so far as to wind their fingers together. Instead he gave a minute brush against Greg’s hand and met his eyes.
“How could I say no to a spontaneous weekend with my boyfriend?” There was the tiniest pause, undetectable to anyone except a Holmes, just before the word boyfriend.
It should have been juvenile. He should have sneered. Most definitely he should not have felt tension flow out of him, tension he didn’t even realize he had been carrying for the past five months, since all this began. “Gregory…”
God, those eyes! They felt as if they would pull him in and lock him into orbit with the other man. “Love it when you say my name like that,” Greg admitted, with one final brush of his hand past Mycroft’s. “I’m looking forward to two days of hearing it.”
Recklessly, before he could second guess himself or think better of it, Mycroft smiled and suggested, “How would you feel about three days, my dear?”
Greg’s eyes glowed into his; anyone with half a brain would have been able to see that they were more than friends. Mycroft could hardly bring himself to care. “That sounds perfect, Myc, just perfect.”
And he suspected it was the unprecedented use of the endearment that had earned his boyfriend’s approval.
******
“Would you please stop thinking about cavorting sexually with Grahame and focus on the reason you called me here?” Sherlock demanded rudely.
It was a rude interruption in more than one way, Mycroft reflected with a silent sigh. He was indeed guilty of once again drifting off and recalling each perfect moment of his romantic mini-break with Greg. The glorious natural beauty of both Iceland and the man in whose company he was honoured to spend three days had rendered Mycroft very nearly normal in his state of unprecedented relaxation. There were even times when he had trouble concentrating on his work since returning. He’d examined this dangerous trend, weighed the detriments against the benefits and decided that Greg was worth any diminishment of his usual keenness. Besides, he was still leagues smarter than anyone else in Whitehall.
“We did not cavort,” Mycroft correct primly. Actually, the two of them had exhausted themselves with a nearly humourous level of sexual activity. The closest they had come to cavorting was when Greg had attempted to take him atop the huge, sturdy vanity and they’d managed to break one of the legs and topple onto the carpet. Luckily neither of them had been injured, and his black bank card assured discretion and compliance.
“No doubt because the two of you are decrepit and ancient and only managed to gum at one another toothlessly before nodding off over your porridge.”
“A charming image, I’m sure,” Mycroft smiled pleasantly, “and one soon to be in your own future, given that Doctor Watson is my age and you a mere seven years behind us,” He steepled his hands, aware that Sherlock found him unbearably smug and not giving a damn, “Something to look forward to.”
“Enough,” Sherlock protested, although he was the one to have started them on the subject anyway, “Bore me with your reason for the summons and then let me be on my way.”
“Yes, please do ignore me as I outline the case for you, so that you can pretend not to give me any assistance, and then solve it in the most arrogant fashion possible.”
“You should have been drowned at birth.” Sherlock stated, standing up with a swirl of his unseasonable and entirely unnecessary coat, “Text me the details!”
“Mummy and Father should have stopped at one child,” Mycroft called pleasantly.
******
“This is nice,” Greg said, idly tracing one fingertip over Mycroft’s back. “Lazy Sunday morning, comfy bed…gorgeous man in my arms…” He turned his head from where his cheek had been cushioned against Mycroft’s messy hair and used the fingers of his other hand to tip Mycroft’s chin up, leaning in for a slow kiss, “Mmm…this has been the perfect weekend, Myc. I can’t believe we both got out of work on time Friday, no disasters cropped up yesterday, and now we have the entire day to do whatever we want.”
Mycroft hummed happily, snuggling closer, even though they were already curled together with not an inch to spare between them. “I can’t recall the last time I had a lie-in.”
“Now that we’ve gotten the necessities of an extra hour’s sleep and a nice romp between the sheets out of the way, what say we have a shower and I make us some brekkie?”
“If we shower together it will be lunchtime by the time we make it downstairs,” Mycroft pointed out wryly. He was smiling though, and Greg chuckled, his laugh rumbling pleasantly under Mycroft’s ear.
“That’s true enough. Okay, so how about you get that long, sexy body under a hot shower and while you suds up I’ll see to the food?”
“You spoil me,” Mycroft murmured, turning his face into Greg’s warm, sleep-stale skin and hugging him more tightly. He was becoming quite addicted to sleeping in this man’s arms, in waking up with his creased cheek on the pillow beside his. To be taking care of his morning routine while knowing that downstairs his boyfriend was preparing breakfast for him…I don’t want him to leave, he thought fiercely, tightening the circle of his arms around Greg.
“Hey now, you’re squeezing me like I’m trying to get away,” Greg laughed, holding him tighter in turn, “’m just going downstairs, I won’t even put on any clothes if that makes you feel better—hardly liable to do a runner in my birthday suit, am I?”
“I’ll hide them all and keep you captive here in the house, available to be with me any time.”
“I might get tired of being a kept man,” Greg quipped. He was joking, but Mycroft could hear the hint of unease. His greater wealth and power were an underlying issue they hadn’t truly addressed yet. He had been hoping they could avoid it altogether.
“Then I’d best not try my hand at keeping you,” Mycroft said lightly, sitting up and swinging his legs off the edge of the bed.
Greg reached out and snagged his wrist, tugging a little; Mycroft looked back over his shoulder inquiringly. “You don’t need to keep me, because you’re not going to lose me,” Greg said, smoothing his thumb over the back of Mycroft’s hand, and raising it to his lips to press a kiss to it, although he blushed a little at making the old-fashioned gesture. “I’m all yours, gorgeous.”
“Gregory…”
“Go on,” he sighed, giving Mycroft a little shove, “Don’t look at me like that…and don’t say my name in that melting tone! I’m trying to get out of this bed and that’s not going to happen if you seduce me back every Sunday we manage to spend together.”
“Who seduced whom the last time?” Mycroft demanded with mock indignation.
“That’s a matter for debate,” Greg said, shooing him.
“As I recall, you grabbed me around the waist, and said, “Your jewels or your virtue, sweetheart,” and proceeded to ravish me.” Mycroft’s lips twitched.
Greg grinned shamelessly, “But Myc…your virtue is so delicious.”
Mycroft ignored the rising heat in his cheeks and slid out of bed, “Virtue can only be lost once, Gregory.”
“As I recall, you lost yours three times that day.”
“You’re a beast.”
“And you love me.”
“I do,” Mycroft said softly, unable to make a game out of it. It was still incredibly new, this feeling, and being allowed to express it had the power to erase so many of his doubts and fears.
Greg softened and joined him at the side of the bed, pulling him back into his warm embrace, “I love you, too, sweetheart.” He kissed him tenderly, and smiled against Mycroft’s lips at the shiver it inspired. “Go on, you’re going to freeze and we can’t have that.”
“I shan’t be long,” Mycroft promised, slipping into his dressing gown and turning towards the en suite. “I’ll make my own tea when I come down, you just see to your coffee.” He hid a smile at the thought of Greg’s coming delight when he discovered the gleaming espresso maker which had been delivered just the day before and was awaiting his first cup.
“Don’t shave, alright?” Greg reminded him slightly anxiously, pausing at the door to the hallway.
He couldn’t help but smile, “Not until morning.”
Greg followed him to the door and cupped his prickly cheeks in his palms, peppering light kisses on his mouth and nose. The sheer childishness of it should have been off-putting, but Mycroft was charmed, particularly by the happy mmms his lover was humming. “I love that sexy red stubble on you, Myc…God, it’s unbearably sexy.”
“You’re mad.”
“You’re mad for not growing a beard. You’d be so damned sexy in a beard…perfectly groomed above your impeccable suits…” Greg gave an exaggerated shiver—which did most interesting things as he was still nude—and backed toward the door, “But you already said no to a full-time beard, so I’ll just take the weekends.”
“Utterly mad,” Mycroft smiled, watching him saunter out of the master bedroom. He was dating a madman and he wouldn’t change a moment of it.
******
“Anthea, I need your assistance with an important matter,” Mycroft said gravely to his trusted PA. It was the Monday following his glorious weekend of indulgence and debauchery with Gregory, and he had been worrying about something all morning.
“Of course, Mycroft,” She set down her tea cup and picked up her tablet, “Is this on the record?”
“No…” Mycroft steepled his fingers, stared at the antique oak paneling of his private rooms at The Diogenes, willing his cheeks to remain cool and pale. “This is of a more personal nature.”
“Oh?” She tucked the tablet back in her sleek bag and picked her cup back up, arching a brow, “Are we doing personal now?”
He grimaced at her arch tone. As much as he had tried to avoid forging a personal connection with her, they had been together for nearly ten years. Anthea was one of the few people in his professional life who called him by his first name, and certainly the only one he actually liked. In any other setting he would have called her a friend. “I don’t suppose I can ask you to resist needling me for the next half hour?”
Her smile had wicked edges, “Ask me? No. Bribe me…”
“Your price?”
“There’s a pair of limited edition Jimmy Choos I’ve been wait-listed for—”
“Text me the details and I’ll—oh, that was fast, my dear.”
She slipped her mobile back in her suit coat pocket and grinned sunnily at him, “They’re very sexy shoes.”
“As if you need additional ammunition.”
“Maybe they’re to make me happy, not to attract someone. Have you considered that?”
“My apologies, I naturally assumed your sexually rapacious nature was the root cause behind your search for fresh plumage.”
“You assumed correctly,” Anthea leaned forward and held the tea pot over his cup, “Shall I freshen your cup? Or…is this conversation going to require fortification of a vintage nature?”
“I think perhaps a small tot wouldn’t come amiss.” He rose, tipped a little excellent brandy into two rocks glasses and crossed back over the Axminster carpet to hand Anthea hers, before he returned to his seat. “I’ve a small problem…Gregory mentioned Christmas this weekend.”
“Which makes this a problem exactly how?”
He studied his glass, “In the course of conversation he became rather fixated on the disparity between our bank accounts—”
“Oh Lord,” she interrupted, standing up. She fetched the decanter, returned to their cozy chairs and added a significant amount to both their glasses, kicked off her heels, sat down with her legs curled up beneath her and regarded him with pity over her drink. “Go on.”
“Is this really necessary?” Mycroft asked with a pointed look at his brandy. “I said it was a small problem.”
“Money troubles are never small.”
“It isn’t trouble…Gregory just holds some natural hesitation about the scope of what he can offer versus say…me.”
One elbow was planted on the wide arm of her chair and Anthea cupped her chin in her hand, “Your naivety is adorable.”
“Anthea,” he said in annoyance, swallowing anger and brandy.
“Mycroft,” She shook her head, “Money is one of the biggest reasons behind break ups.”
“We’re not breaking up!” Surely he, of all people, would have noticed the signs.
“There are usually other problems as well, but money is a biggie. So, have you two fought about anything else…sex? Moving in together?”
“This is outrageous and completely beyond an acceptable—”
“You can tell me, I’m your best friend.”
“What?” Mycroft stared at her in shock; the brandy was clearly too strong for a mid-day drink. “You…you are my employee.”
Shaking her head quite definitively, Anthea put her glass aside and settled into her chair, “I work for you, true. But I’m your smart, sexy, fabulous female bestie and you’re my neurotic gay male best mate.”
“Neurotic?” Mycroft mouthed. He straightened with annoyance, “Why do you get to be fabulous and I’m neurotic? I’m the gay one, I should be fabulous!”
“Don’t reinforce stereotypes, Holmes,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you are neurotic.”
“I’m smart, too,” He muttered, sounding entirely too much like Sherlock for his own liking.
“Mm, yes. Anyway…what is this issue about money?”
He flushed, retreated behind his glass, mumbled, “Gregory set a cap on Christmas spending.”
“Oh dear…you are in trouble…how much?”
“Fifty pounds,” Basically, discretionary funds for a trip to the canteen.
“Fi—” throwing back her head, his fabulous best friend shrieked with laughter, as if he’d told a wonderfully funny joke. “Oh God,” she finally gasped, taking his begrudgingly offered handkerchief and dabbing delicately at her eyes, “You’re never going to be able to do it.”
“What on earth can I possibly buy for that little money that wouldn’t be a slap in the face?” Mycroft stared glumly at the knees of his trousers. He had socks that cost more than fifty pounds.
“Well…” Anthea cleared her throat, put on a more businesslike air. “Um…book vouchers?”
“That is a gift for one’s maiden aunt,” Mycroft objected, frowning.
“A new shirt? You’re always muttering about those awful checked ones he wears. And whatever sad discount hell he buys his clothes from will probably let you snag half a dozen for that much money.”
Gregory was splendidly beautiful, but his clothing was serviceable and dull. “But…it’s not very…” Romantic, not that he would say that aloud.
She looked mischievous, but managed to say with equanimity, “Perhaps not something you want to give your boyfriend for your first Christmas?”
“Exactly.”
“Mm, well…what does Greg like?”
“Arsenal, true crime novels, curry, pale ales, Golden Retrievers, terrible action movies, high thread count sheets—only those cost more than fifty pounds—sleeping in late on the weekends, the sports page, crossword puzzles, driving in the rain, his old leather trench coat, my handkerchiefs…” Mycroft closed his eyes, kissing the corner of my mouth when we say goodbye in the mornings, making me food and watching me eat, the smell of my bath products even though he teases me for using them…privacy and peace on the weekends…the brush of my stubble on his inner thigh…
“Whatever puts that look on your face, maybe you should wrap it up and give it to him,” Anthea said, and she sounded perfectly serious and slightly envious. He opened his eyes, dazed, and feeling deeply embarrassed for allowing himself to think such intimate thoughts in someone else’s presence. She was smiling though, and even reached out and squeezed his wrist. “I think you can do this, if you just put some thought into it.”
******
Unable to sleep, Mycroft slipped slowly out of Greg’s bed and stole out of the room, pulling the bedroom door closed behind him. He moved with ease through the darkened flat, nearly as familiar with the layout of it now as he was his own home. It was late, well after midnight, and between his long week and the vigorous, near athletic sex they’d had in the shower, he was physically tired.
But his mind wouldn’t shut down. It had been weeks since Greg’s proposed budget on Christmas spending, and in all that time he wasn’t any closer to a solution. All of his ideas seemed so boring or impersonal, or were wildly too expensive. He’d resorted to online searches for gifts in that price range and the results were depressing or laughable. He couldn’t give his beloved Gregory anything so paltry. Nothing he had found came close to matching the utterly priceless gift that Greg had already given him.
What could possibly match his precious yet freely given time? His regard was worth far more than such a small sum; his affection was offered without thought of return; the worth of Greg’s love was beyond a quantifiable figure. There was no way to express with fifty measly, piddly little pounds the rapture, joy and contentment his lover brought him.
Perhaps television would dull his mind or a warm drink soothe his spirits. Deciding on both, Mycroft padded into the kitchen and opened the cupboards for a mug and turned toward the larder, intent on the tin of cocoa mix he knew Greg kept on the second shelf. If he happened to also fetch out the jar of Nutella…well, no one need know.
“Can’t sleep?” Greg’s sleep rough voice inquired softly from the doorway.
Mycroft froze, one Nutella covered finger poised before his open mouth, “Oh…Gregory.”
A sleepy smile tipped up his lips, and he shambled closer leaning in to kiss the corner of Mycroft’s mouth, “Mmm, delicious.”
“I—I haven’t had any yet,” Mycroft said breathlessly.
“Wasn’t talking about the spread, sweetheart.”
He blushed at the word spread, and Greg laughed, darting in to suck the Nutella off of Mycroft’s finger, hollowing his cheeks and waggling his eyebrows like a vaudeville comedian playing to the back row. “I was only going to have a tiny, tiny bit,” Mycroft said, hoping he didn’t think he was disgusting for snaking on sweets in the middle of the night, and with his hands, none the less.
“I know,” Greg assured him, nodding toward the jar, “You haven’t made many inroads in this jar and I’ve had it over two months.”
“You—you know?” How humiliating!
“That you sneak in here when you need a bit of comforting and have a furtive scoop? Yeah,” Greg filled two mugs and put them in the microwave to heat the water, leaned against the counter and regarded him with fond eyes. “I’m onto you. It’s why I keep buying the stuff…I like to keep you happy.”
“I don’t need this to make me happy,” Mycroft objected, screwing on the lid without taking any.
“It’s harmless if it does, love. And besides, you allow yourself few enough treats…I’d say this is one you can indulge in without guilt.”
Hesitantly, Mycroft unscrewed the lid, held one finger over the glossy dark richness waiting inside. Greg quirked a brow at him, and Mycroft recklessly plunged his finger in the jar, scooped up a glob and brought it to his lips, blushing hard. It felt strangely intimate to do this, never mind that it was a relatively tame and innocent act. Compared to the positively filthy things they’d gotten up to in the shower, it was ridiculous for him to blush now.
“Better?”
He nodded, closing the jar and tucking it away, rolling the delectable goodness around in his mouth. The microwave beeped and Greg turned to prepare the instant coca. “C’mon, let’s go zone out in front of the telly with these, and then see if we can’t get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a work day for both of us.”
“You needn’t stay up on my account,” Mycroft objected, trailing after him.
“No worries, babe, I can spare an hour or so to snuggle with my boyfriend in the middle of the night and watch—hey! Look, From Russia With Love! We can watch this, yeah?”
“You and these films,” Mycroft teased, settling in next to him and accepting his drink. “And yet you’ve still to read any of the books.”
“I should swing by the library on one of my days off,” Greg said absently, blowing on his cocoa, “See if they have ‘em.”
“I wouldn’t mind reading them again myself,” Mycroft mused, recalling how much enjoyment they had given him when he was younger. He wondered if he had his old copies at the Cottage.
“Mmm, now there’s a capital idea,” Greg enthused, squeezing his knee, “You could read them out loud to me…be even better that way, in your sexy posh voice.”
“You’re perfectly ridiculous,” Mycroft hushed him.
“You’re perfectly adorable,” Greg flirted, leaning in to kiss him and nearly upending cocoa in their laps.
******
“Any luck?” Anthea inquired chattily, tidying away the papers from their meeting. The conference room was empty save for the two of them, but he still twitched, and looked around. She read his reaction perfectly, “It’s technically elevenses and we’re allowed a few minutes of personal time.”
He scowled at how well she knew him; she hadn’t even been looking at him and yet she instantly deduced his unease with discussing his personal life in a work setting, where anyone might overhear the intimate details of his life. Given that until less than a year ago, he hadn’t had a personal life to discuss, Mycroft found himself terribly ill-equipped to handle such a situation…so he might be forgiven some suspicion and discomfort when it was a matter of his—
Oh dear Lord…he was the neurotic one. “No,” Mycroft allowed grumpily, when she turned and gave him a look at his continued (apparently neurotic) silence, “All of my ideas seem so, so flat…humdrum.”
“Have you thought of taking him shopping?” Anthea shouldered her bag and lifted an armful of files, stepping through the door he held open for her.
Being in the open hallway didn’t make this discussion any less harrowing; however, he comforted himself with the fact that at least they were on the move, making their conversation harder to follow for any potential eavesdroppers. And too, Anthea was a woman of keen insight and excellent taste…he would value her contribution. “I wish for his gift to be a surprise, not something he chooses for himself.”
“I didn’t mean you’d ask him to pick it out…just that perhaps on the pretext of shopping for someone else you could suss out what draws his eye.”
It was an excellent suggestion. “Mummy does need a gift still.”
She pressed her free hand to her heart in shock, nearly upsetting a mousy accountant from the third floor who went pink at the sight of one beautifully manicured hand pressed above one perfect breast, “You mean I won’t get the pleasure of buying Mummy’s gift this year?” She actually giggled, “You’re going to go inside a store?”
“Needs must.”
“This close to Christmas?”
“Dear Lord.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate the personal touch,” Anthea smirked, “She must be drowning in floaty scarves and books on gardening.”
“You always choose lovely scarves,” Mycroft said defensively, “And Mummy likes gardening books.”
“Well, if you actually search for a suitable gift for her yourself, you can press-gang your yummy boyfriend into going with you and use your psychic super powers to determine what he wants.”
“Psychic super powers?” He inquired icily, hiding his amusement; sassy best friend indeed.
******
Dear Lord, the crowds. Mycroft clenched his hands inside his coat pockets and gritted his back teeth; it was Saturday midday, they were in Harrods and it was crawling with people, everywhere he looked. There was aggressively cheerful music playing…chic salesgirls spritzing passersby with scent…there were children everywhere.
“This is great!” Gregory Lestrade was as eager as a child, practically vibrating with energy, eyes bright as he looked around, “Where should we look first?”
“Let us start with something for Father,” Mycroft suggested smoothly, guiding Greg with a gentle touch of his hand on his back. He saw the startled, pleased look his boyfriend tossed over his shoulder, and knew he was somewhat taken aback by Mycroft touching him in public. Although it was an innocuous touch, it was more than he usually displayed around others…it was merely that he’d grown so accustomed to the comfort of their home-time and hadn’t thought about it first.
They wound their way through the men’s clothing department, Greg looking about curiously; Mycroft kept a surreptitious eye on him as he flicked through the displays and perused the goods. He had hoped for cues and clues, but in a very short amount of time he realized he had made a tactical error. He could not possibly find anything for such a small amount of money here. Nevertheless, he carried on, hoping for at least a suggestion of something that piqued Greg’s interest. He supposed he could always find a more affordably priced option elsewhere, perhaps even online.
After arraying a collection of bow ties for Father, and choosing two new cashmere cardigans for him also, Mycroft and Greg spent a goodly amount of time pouring over the wristwatches and cologne. He found Father’s usual fragrance, selected a gift set of Sherlock’s accustomed Van Cleef & Arpels which he would sneer at and wear anyway. Satisfied with his selection (and determined to purchase for Greg’s birthday the Hermès Eau D’Orange Vert cologne which he had sneakily determined smelled divine on him), Mycroft led the way to the women’s department and began the hunt for something for his mother.
He had not joked, she did love scarves and books, but he felt a niggle of guilt that his gift to her rarely deviated. Despite not wishing to remain in the store any longer than necessary, Mycroft sucked it up and plunged into finding something. “Does your mum like trinkety type things?” Greg called.
“The Cottage is bursting with objects which could indeed be called trinkets,” Mycroft replied, joining him.
“These smell great, and some of them are really pretty,” Greg pointed out, sniffing assiduously.
“Hmm, she does love fragrance…she’s always going off and forgetting that she has candles burning,” Mycroft mused, thinking that these seemed a damn sight less dangerous than open flames. He selected a diffuser sphere, a china orb painted with a bouquet of wildflowers and promised, “Just one more stop…I wish to select for her a brooch.” At least it would be something to keep all those floaty scarves from falling off. After that, home, and the rest of the gifts could be selected online. His head was beginning to pound.
“Look here, Myc,” Greg said, touching his elbow; Mycroft halted, and looked back. His boyfriend was standing before a display of rather florid enamel and silver picture frames. “You said your mum was mad for flowers, yeah? I bet she’d love one of these that stands up and holds two pictures...you could put you and Sherlock’s snaps in.”
“She knows what we look like,” Mycroft told him, mystified.
Greg gave him an unreadable look, “She loves you Myc—she’s proud of you—she’d be bursting at the seams to display her handsome sons in a frame you bought her.”
“I suppose,” Mycroft said doubtfully. Greg did, of course, have more experience with buying gifts for women than he did. And Father was always trying to get them to sit still long enough on holidays to take photographs…oh Lord, but trying to get Sherlock to agree to sit for a professional photograph! Perhaps he could bribe Doctor Watson into taking a candid photo of him; preferably when he was asleep, and not scowling at the camera. “Yes, my d—erm, yes, Gregory, you’re quite right, Mummy would probably quite like that idea.” He didn’t miss the look of disappointment, hastily swallowed, on Greg’s face, at his near slip and subsequent recovery.
But Greg didn’t allow it to keep him down for long, instead manfully pitching in and murmuring, “That’s nice,” to every piece of jewelry Mycroft pointed out to him. “All done here?” Greg asked, with scarcely masked relief, once Mycroft’s selection was being boxed up. “You said we had to go to Fortnum & Mason after this?” Greg asked, trailing after him, fingers running idly through a rack of lush mufflers.
Mycroft sighed soundlessly. Damn, he’d forgotten the hamper.
“Can’t we just get the hamper here?” Greg asked, looking around the opulence and bounty on offer all around them.
“I’m afraid tradition dictates our Christmas hamper come from Fortnum & Mason,” Mycroft said regretfully. Sometimes his dedication to tradition and family honour was a burden. However, he did love their Christmas spice tea, so at least there was a boon for following tradition. And it would give him more scope for gauging Greg’s reaction to various and sundry items.
******
“Bugger!” Greg scrambled awkwardly into the back of the Jaguar, trying not to drip. “I’m afraid I’m getting everything wet, Myc.”
“It’s alright, my dear, the leather will survive a few droplets.”
“This is a bit more than a few droplets,” his boyfriend said ruefully, gratefully accepting Mycroft’s handkerchief and blotting at his dewy hair and face. “’m afraid I’m gonna be a little unsightly for our dinner.”
It would take far more than slightly bedraggled silver locks shining in the candle light for him to look unsightly. Mycroft took back his handkerchief and patted lightly at Greg’s jacket collar and then leaned in and kissed him, stomach swooping happily. A simple kiss still had the power to make his breath come more quickly, his heart to race, even after nearly a year.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Greg murmured against his lips, taking tiny sipping kisses, one warm hand coming up to cup his jaw. “I missed you…it’s been a hellish two weeks without you.”
“I could say the same,” Mycroft admitted, pressing their foreheads together and breathing in his comforting smell. “The travel and the politics and the drama was onerous enough…but to be parted from you is the hardest part.”
“Planes still giving you headaches?” Greg asked sympathetically, sliding his hand to the back of Mycroft’s neck and massaging deliciously.
“Ohhh…that feels marvelous, darling,” Mycroft purred, eyes drifting closed. They opened in the next moment, however, at the small sound Greg made. “Greg?”
He was flushed, smiling, his dear brown eyes as hot and sweet as Swiss cocoa. “I love it when you call me darling…the sound of that plummy voice of yours going all soft and tender…” His eyes were limpid, and he hitched closer, kissing Mycroft sweetly, “…it’s the best.”
“It takes so little to make you happy,” Mycroft said in wonder, smiling back at his lover.
“You make me happy, Myc…it’s as simple as that.”
Their arrival at the restaurant was poorly timed, but it was probably for the best, considering much more and neither of them would be in a fit state to be seen in public. Mycroft cleared his throat and made minute adjustments to his clothing, while Greg ran a hand through his hair and tugged discreetly at his trousers, grinning ruefully.
“Wait,” Mycroft instructed, when he would have plunged out the door. He held out his Aspinal’s umbrella, “Do put that to its intended use, please, love.” He followed Greg out of the Jaguar and they mounted the steps to the restaurant together, shoulders brushing from their necessary proximity. “I fail to understand why you’re forever without an umbrella.”
“I lose ‘em,” his boyfriend shrugged, shaking the rain off of Mycroft’s umbrella and opening the elaborately leaded glass door for him, “They’re too bulky and I put ‘em down and end up leaving them behind and then I can’t recall where I had it last.” He winked as Mycroft sailed past him to the coat check, “Besides, then I get to share yours.”
Mycroft composed his face, and gave his name to the maître d; as they were led to their private room, he noticed Greg looking around wistfully at all the couples at their cozy tables, low glass bowls hung with shimmering pendants sending gently refracting light dancing over rapt faces. Hushed conversation was barely audible above the sound of soft violins and the clink of silverware. There were lush, dark crimson roses next to some of the women’s plates, and the air felt ripe with romance.
Unbidden, Mycroft imagined walking through the public dining room, with Gregory on his arm, their relationship clear to all as they were led to one of the intimate two-top tables. Every head would turn toward his handsome partner as Mycroft held his chair, envious eyes would peek at hands clasped openly on the table…and despite his practical nature, surely Greg’s eyes would shine brighter than diamonds against dark velvet when Mycroft presented him with a rose.
Perhaps someday, he thought, exhaling shakily, following Greg into the private room and feeling the tension and longing in his shoulders ease as they ceased to be under scrutiny. He wasn’t ashamed neither of his orientation, nor of his relationship or partner…but privacy was not only a habit—and sometimes a necessity— it was a comfort as well. “I’m sorry—” he began haltingly.
“God we’re so lucky,” Greg said happily, holding out Mycroft’s chair with a charming, awkward, courtly little bow, ignoring the waiter’s tiny smile. “We’ve got the whole room to ourselves.” He winked at the waiter, “Knock first, eh? I’m going to be embarrassing him by mooning over his eyes and calling him sweetheart all night.”
“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, face burning hotter.
“He’s embarrassed…but doesn’t he have gorgeous eyes?” Greg smiled goofily, “Like a stormy sky as the clouds are clearing and the sun’s just about to come out.”
“Mr. Holmes does have very nice eyes,” the waiter, who had served them before, agreed, clearly charmed, “and he’s very lucky to have a partner who compliments him on them. Now, gentlemen, shall I bore you with the specials? Or would you like a little time to look over the prix fixe whilst I fetch your wine?”
“Give us a bit of time, please, Alonso,” Mycroft said, voice cool even if his cheeks were hot. “We’ll be ordering starters this evening…we’re in no hurry.”
Greg twinkled at him wickedly, reaching out for Mycroft’s hand, “Alonso doesn’t mind,” he said as the waiter departed. “He thinks we’re cute.”
“He thinks you’re sexy and I’m a good tipper,” Mycroft said dryly, but he was secretly pleased.
“Mmm, the spicy prawn toasts sound delicious,” Greg said, eyes scanning the menu, “But so does the grilled plum…with goat cheese, blackberries, balsamic drizzle and pistachios.” He glanced up, “What are you having, Myc?”
“Shall we split?” Mycroft suggested, closing his menu, “Those both sound excellent.”
“Let’s,” Greg agreed, taking his hand again and hitching his chair a little closer. “So…the church in my neighborhood is having a holiday festival this weekend. All sorts of bits and bobs and homemade goodies, some antiques and old books and oddities available as well…fancy going with me?” His smile was enticing, “No one would know us there, we could bundle up. And you could wear your glasses and one of my coats, and we could walk around holding hands and buying jam and scones and look for knick-knacks for the people on my list.”
“How do you make that sound so appealing?” Mycroft wondered.
“So does that mean you’ll go with me?”
“That depends…will you buy me a cup of the type of dreadful tea these functions always seem to peddle, and promise I don’t have to carry all of your packages?”
“I had to carry your packages when you went shopping,” Greg pointed out reasonably, eyes shining.
“Mm, yes…but, you are magnificently muscled and furthermore looked quite wonderful with your arms full of wrapped packages.”
“Magnificently muscled!” Greg cracked up, and Mycroft joined him. They were still laughing when Alonso returned, a smile playing about his lips as he presented wine to his two favourite patrons.
******
“You’re certain you don’t mind exchanging our gifts on Christmas Eve?” Mycroft asked, as Greg turned on the white fairy lights on the (very tastefully decorated) Fraser fir as Mycroft fiddled with the lights until the overhead lights were off and the lamps glowed softly on their lowest settings. They had just finished their after-dinner coffees and following a spirited loading of the dishwasher, they had retired to the lounge, which was quite charming with the softly burning fire, shining candles and low instrumental holiday music.
Since Mycroft had (quite trepidatiously) invited his beloved to the Holmes family Christmas the following day, they had opted to spend the night before in his home. “There’s only so much of Mummy’s meddling, Father’s vagueness and Sherlock’s insanity I can handle with any aplomb,” Mycroft had excused. It was true, but the truth was, he hated to expose poor Greg to his impossible family any longer than he had to. If he was at all lucky, they could plan their escape before Father asked them when the wedding was, and Mummy pulled out his boyhood photographs.
“I’m so glad we decided to celebrate the night here together,” Greg responded, tossing a couple of cushions on the floor by the hearth and going to fetch Mycroft’s gift, “’s more romantic like this.”
“I’m all for romance, my love,” Mycroft assured him, and had to stop and marvel at the words he’d just uttered.
“Myc?” Greg turned from the tree, and found him standing motionless where he’d left him, “You alright?”
“I…I just never would have dreamed, only a year ago, that I might one day say those words and mean them,” Mycroft said softly, feeling emotion burn in his eyes. “You-you’ve changed my entire concept of sentiment, Gregory.”
Greg put down his package and came to wrap him in his arms, holding him tightly, “Myc…Myc, you’re trembling, babe…are you okay?”
“I adore you,” Mycroft said fervently, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, winding his arms under and around Gregory’s and hugging him tightly, emotion beating wildly inside him. “You’ve grown to be so terribly important to me…in less than a year I’ve become addicted to your presence, committed to your happiness…” Greg’s damp eyes were rapt as he gazed at Mycroft. “I can now honestly say that I love you, mean it when say I adore showering you with romance, and I can call you my own darling.” He swallowed, finished huskily, “I wouldn’t have been able to say any of that aloud just a few months ago…”
“…M-Myc…” Greg crushed him to him, a choked breath struggling to get out as he pressed his face to Mycroft’s throat, “Oh, sweetheart…ah God, you make me so happy. You know that, don’t you?” He demanded fiercely, pulling back and sliding his hands up to grip Mycroft’s face, thumbs tenderly wiping away the dampness beneath Mycroft’s eyes, “Every single minute with you, even when we argue about stupid things, or when we come together so late at night after the world’s worst day…too tired to even make love…seeing you is the only thing that counts.”
Tears dried up in the heat from their kisses, breathless laughter replaced tremulous emotion, and they clung to one another, reveling in their happiness. After a long time Greg pulled back, lips swollen and his brown eyes glowing, “Dance with me?”
Nat King Cole’s The Christmas Song was playing, almost too low to hear his velvety croon, and Mycroft’s hands shifted position, automatically taking the lead…which turned out to be a lucky thing, as Greg was a shambles as a dancer. No matter, Mycroft thought dreamily, holding his man in his arms as they swayed side to side, the dance devolving from an activity into more or less a standing cuddle, there’s time for Greg to take lessons before our wedding.
Not even a smidgen of panic assailed him at the thought. In this exact moment in time he understood every foolish, dangerous, lovely, inexplicable thing anyone had ever done for love. He understood Mummy’s abiding affection and desire for Father, a man who was unquestionably less intelligent and gifted than she. He understood his brother’s burning desire to keep the rather ordinary John Watson safe at any cost. It made no sense…but love had found Mycroft Holmes, and it wasn’t fleeing in terror. And neither was he.
There was plenty of time for him to ease Greg towards the idea of an engagement, and a wedding was several years down the road—the planning alone!—but yes, he absolutely wanted this. Mine forever after, he thought, feet stilling as, with a slight awkwardness, he bent his knees, tucked one arm behind Greg’s back and scooped the other behind his knees.
An entirely amusing and undignified yelp was surprised out of Greg, who clutched at him, laughing and protesting, “Myc! What the hell?”
“Shut up, my dear, I’m being romantic.” So saying, Mycroft adjusted his hold with a little grunt and covered the (thankfully short) distance to the pile of cushions before the fire.
“Oh my God, you’re going to do one of us a mischief,” Greg worried, “Put me down, don’t try to—”
Ending up sprawling face down on one’s giggling lover was not quite how this scenario was supposed to play out, but Mycroft had achieved his ultimate goal. With a bit of adjustment—and no help from Greg, who was laughing merrily and asking if the security cameras were on in the room because he’d bet they could win a contest for sheer hilarity with that display—Mycroft got them situated to his satisfaction.
“Just how much wine did you have with dinner?” Greg teased, arching his neck when Mycroft blazed a trail from the open neck of his shirt up over the expanse of his throat. He gasped, “Do that again, love…yes, right there…” He carded his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, “God, your beard drives me mad, sweetheart.”
Mycroft smiled against the faintly salty brown skin, nuzzling and kissing to his heart’s content, as he settled along his lover’s pliant body. There was plenty of time to fulfill Gregory’s every desire, as slowly and as thoroughly as he pleased…tonight wasn’t about sex. It was about love, and he had plenty of that to spend.