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Undercover Greg was apparently dressed like a repressed Punk-Rock dad.
He looked at himself in the mirror and gave an unconscious shiver.
He was wearing tight, black jeans (that even he was surprised he managed to squeeze in but, damn, did they make his arse look great), grey Ramones t-shirt and a leather jacket. He had mussed his hair with gel so it stood up Everywhere and was wearing eyeliner. To be honest, if his younger self saw him now, he would be part impressed and part embarrassed.
He never liked going undercover. Six times out of ten they get away before he can get them. It’s gone up to seven since Sherlock… plopped into his life. Bloody Sherlock.
This murderer had killed two men at two different clubs. But, of course, the Amazing and Wonderful Sherlock Holmes discovered that this club had the same manager as the first club, and the second had the supervisor from the first. Something up wrong here – and instead of guns blazing, the Fantastic and Delightful Sherlock Holmes wanted to be sneaky and tactical.
The man has never been tactical in his life. Bet he only knows the words from the dictionary.
With a final sigh and another curse to ever meeting Sherlock fucking Holmes, he grabbed his wallet, phone and keys before exiting his apartment.
0-0
It might be worth every embarrassment to see ‘punk John’, Greg thought.
The ex-army doctor had temporary dyed his hair and had combed it, as much as he could, over his face. He had also tried his hands at make-up, but obviously had no experience so the eyeliner was wobbly and his eyeshadow was already smudged with sweat from how hot it was beginning to get in the club. Didn’t help that he was wearing leather trousers!
“How you holding up?” Greg asked, trying hard to hold in his smirk.
“If you dare take a picture!”
Greg holds up his hands in mock surrender. “We’re in this together, mate.”
Sherlock marches up to them (the man only had to wear a bloody top to match in with the lot – still wearing his bloody coat. Another curse for meeting the so-called Consulting Detective). “They haven’t arrived… yet. We need to blend in for when they do. It will look suspicious if we’re together, so we’ll split up. John with me, Craig- you do you.”
“Fred always go with Daphne.” Greg mutters, rolling his eyes. “And it’s Greg!”
“Doesn’t matter, let’s go.” Sherlock said, pulling John towards a booth away from the dance floor and toward the bar.
“I’m not Daphne.” John managed to add before being pulled away.
‘course, yeah. Greg smirked to himself as Sherlock plonks himself down before pulling John awfully close to him.
0-0
Greg was leaning on the bar for probably the last thirty minutes, still looking out for this murderer. He was sipping on his second beer when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He looked behind him and couldn’t believe it. Mycroft Holmes.
His hair no longer slicked back; short, little, ginger curls around his head that looked more beautiful than Sherlock’s bird nest. His icy blue eyes looked so much calmer, so much clearer and brighter due to the blinking and flashing lights coming from the dance floor. He held a finger to his lips.
“Would you care to dance, Inspector?”
Greg’s legs shook as he nodded. Mycroft smirked as he took Greg’s drink from him and took him out to the dance floor.
‘I said, ooh, I'm blinded by the lights
No, I can't sleep until I feel your touch
I said, ooh, I'm drowning in the night
Oh, when I'm like this, you're the one I trust’
The song was fast, the beat heavy in their bodies. The rest of the floor was thick with people but it felt like it was just the two of them, especially when Mycroft reached out and put an arm on Greg’s shoulder and leaned in.
“Is this alright with you?”
Greg smiled at the question. So unlike the Mycroft everyone else knew, but the Mycroft he knew.
They had been visiting each other three days each month. It had been one day, and it had been about information and progress about Sherlock but it soon changed to three days and about the two of them. Since then Greg had seen a different Mycroft to the one painted by Sherlock, and the image Mycroft presents to the world with his three-suit armour. Every twitch at the end of his lips his him holding back a smile, every puff of air through his nose is him holding back a laugh, every tic of an eye lid is him trying not to correct Greg’s grammar. Greg loves these times.
Back to the dance floor, Greg encircled his arms around Mycroft’s waist and pulls him closer. “It’s perfect.”
Mycroft planted his head in between Greg’s neck and shoulder, breathing him in. He’s so close that when he whispered “Gregory”, Greg can feel his lips upon his neck.
‘Oh, the city's cold and empty,
No one's around to judge me,
I can't see clearly when you're gone’
Moving his mouth down to Mycroft’s ear, “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”
Mycroft looks up slowly to look at him. “Hypothetically, if the killer was caught, would you have a free night?”
Greg looks to where the booth was recently taken by Sherlock and John. It was vacant.
“Sherlock and John got ‘im, didn’t they?”
Mycroft nodded, a slight sympathetic look to his features.
“How didn’t I notice?” Greg asked, more to himself than Mycroft.
Mycroft leaned in a little. “Perhaps you enjoy the homage to your younger self?”
Greg tightened his grip to Mycroft’s middle, bringing them flush against each other. “Perhaps.” Greg smirked up at Mycroft.
Mycroft moved his head so his lips are just hovering over Greg’s lips. “You never answered my question, Gregory.”
“I think we both know the answer.” And with that, Greg surged forward and captured Mycroft mouth and a passionate kiss. It was sweet but closed mouth. Greg stopped to lean his forehead on Mycroft’s. “So, if I’m no longer needed here…”
“Would you like to come back to mine, Gregory?”
“God, I love it when you call me that!” Greg ran his left hand through Mycroft’s little curls. “Can’t you keep these? They make you look adorable.”
“I’m not meant to be adorable.” Mycroft said as he starts to pull them pout of the dance floor. “I’m meant to be feared, respected, intimidating.”
They get outside before Greg pushed him to the outside wall. “Not with me though. You allow me to see through you.”
Mycroft smiled, a little blush on his cheeks – and not from the cold in the night air. “I trust you.”
Greg’s stomach dropped, like he went over a bridge too fast, however he grins. Because those three words are just as important as another three words. Trust to Mycroft Holmes does not come easy.
Greg ran a finger down Mycroft right cheek. “I trust you too.”
Mycroft crushes a desperate kiss to Greg’s mouth. “Please take me home.”
“Already there.”
‘I said, ooh, I'm blinded by the lights
No, I can't sleep until I feel your touch.’