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The Polaroid camera had been a gag gift – Mycroft had already bought Greg a real present, a weekend away, just the two of them, at a spa hotel by the beach, just outside of Santa Barbara – but Mycroft had maintained Greg needed to have something to open and enjoy on his actual birthday.
“A Polaroid camera,” Mycroft had explained as Greg peeled the sticky tape away from the wrapping paper, revealing the gift inside. “Because you’re an old man.”
Greg had rolled his eyes but pressed a kiss to the corner of Mycroft’s mouth all the same. “Rude,” he hummed. “But thank you.”
It’s not as though Greg didn’t like the present – of course he liked it. It was thoughtful, first of all, stemming from a conversation they’d had late one evening. Greg had explained how his grandfather had an old film camera of his own, and that every summer, when they’d visit him and Greg’s aunt in LA, he’d take photos. Weeks later, the photos would arrive in El Paso, carefully packaged in a padded envelope, and the whole Lestrade clan would pour over them, reliving their hot summers in Southern California. Mycroft had clearly had that in mind when he bought the Polaroid camera, wanting to give Greg something that could mimic those cherished childhood memories.
Greg liked it – really, he did – but life had been so busy since his birthday, and he hadn’t had a chance to take more than a few blurry selfies, the Polaroid hanging pride of place on the Lestrade family fridge, next to a reminder about his niece’s summer camp application needing to be finished.
Except –
How could he not be tempted when Mycroft looked as good as he did, there and then? He was in his soft t-shirt and work trousers, leaning against the kitchen wall, hands in his pockets, waiting for Greg to finish making his coffee.
Mycroft was the goddamned love of Greg’s life – but Greg would never trust the other man to make his coffee right.
“What?” Mycroft noticed his staring, a grin quirking at the corners of his mouth as he waited for Greg to reply.
The sun was streaming in through the kitchen windows, the bright morning a promise of one last shift before two days off, and then two more spent just the two of them at a beachside spa – and God, Greg couldn’t wait. But right then, the sun was bathing Mycroft in soft, golden light, and Greg wanted to capture the moment forever.
So, he did.
“Wait here a second,” Greg instructed, ducking out of the kitchen and heading for his bedroom – soon to be their bedroom, if the next few days went the way Greg hoped they would – where the Polaroid camera sat, pride of place, on the dresser.
“We’re going to be late,” Mycroft hummed, but dutifully he stood, waiting for Greg to come back.
“I’m almost ready,” Greg reassured, holding the camera to his eye as he stood in front of Mycroft. He had this soft, secret smile on his face, and Greg wanted to commit the expression to memory – but a photograph was close enough.
“What are you doing?” Mycroft questioned, as the camera whirled to life, the Polaroid film slowly appearing.
“You looked good,” was Greg’s simple reply. Carefully, he set the camera and the photograph down on the kitchen counter, knowing Mycroft was right, and they were definitely going to be late if they didn’t get going.
Greg forgot about the photograph until later – much later – when he finally got home, having dropped Mycroft off at his apartment so he could shower, pack, and meet Maddie (his niece) for an early dinner before spending the rest of his long weekend off. The camera and the photograph hadn’t moved, the Lestrade household having been empty for the last twenty-four hours, and Greg couldn’t help but smile as he picked it up.
The photo was a little dark – and Greg could blame the bright sunny morning for that one – but Mycroft looked as good as Greg remembered. He was leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, and that soft, tiny smile he saved just for Greg was grinning back up at him. Mycroft had a lot of good smiles – bright, happy grins, and smiles that were so clearly rooted in laughter – but Greg had always liked this one best: fond, close-mouthed, and only ever directed at Greg himself.
Pressing a thumb to the grainy capture of Mycroft’s face, Greg rooted in the junk drawer for a pen, keeping his writing as steady as he could as he scribbled the date on the white strip at the end of the photograph. His aunt always dated her photographs (“In case one day, I start to get forgetful,” she explained, handing a bundle to Greg) and Greg had kept up the habit himself. Most of his photos said something like ‘Maddie, aged 6’ or ‘Maddie, first day of second grade,’ but since his relationship with Mycroft had begun, those photos included a few more ‘Greg and Mycroft at the zoo – March 7’ and ‘Mycroft and Greg – April 17,’ and the box of photographs he kept on the bottom shelf of his closet started to feel more complete.
His uncle had always kept a photograph of his aunt in his wallet. Greg knew this because he’d seen it. Edmund Lestrade Sr. had, for the entire 49 years he’d been married to Isabel Lestrade, kept an old black and white (brown, by the end) photograph of a nineteen-year-old Isabel tucked inside his wallet, a reminder of the woman he married kept close.
Greg had always liked the idea of it, and so he’d done it with Maddie. He was sure Maddie would be embarrassed by it one day, but Greg had one of her old school photographs in his wallet. The school had asked if they wanted extra, pocket-sized copies, and Greg had immediately said yes, and a tiny version of a grinning, gap-toothed, five-year-old Maddie had lived in Greg’s wallet ever since.
There was space for Mycroft to be there, too – because Mycroft had fit so perfectly into every empty space of Greg’s life and had filled in every dark, lonely part of Greg’s heart and made life something so filled with love and happiness that Greg didn’t know what to do with it sometimes.
Carefully, he tucked the Polaroid of Mycroft in beside the photograph of Maddie, his cell phone ringing just as he did so, right on cue.
“Hi, baby,” Greg greeted, propping his phone against the microwave, Mycroft’s face peering up at him. It was funny, really – they’d just spent a whole twenty-four hours together, and they’d definitely spent a solid fifteen minutes making out in Greg’s truck when Greg dropped Mycroft back at the loft (not home, no – Greg refused to believe that Mycroft’s home was anywhere except with him) and still, he felt a flutter of excitement in his belly as Mycroft called and he got to see his face.
They were gross, Greg knew – but he wasn’t ashamed. He missed Mycroft all the time; that was just how it was.
Mycroft’s smile was impossibly soft. “Hello,” he grinned back. “I have a problem.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“I don’t know which of these shirts to bring this weekend!” Mycroft, holding up two absolutely identical shirts.
Greg couldn’t help but laugh, rolling his eyes. “Those are the same shirt, Mycroft.”
“Hey, Mycroft?”
“Yeah?” Mycroft called back, squirming as the cool tile of the kitchen hit his bare feet.
“Can you grab some cash out of my wallet?” Greg asked, clearly heading for the front door, his voice getting further and further away. “I want to give the delivery driver a tip.”
Mycroft nodded, before realising Greg couldn’t see him, shouting back an affirmative. Greg’s wallet was tossed on the kitchen table where he’d left it that morning when they’d gotten in from work, the brown leather faded and worn, the wallet well-loved. He flipped it open, something else catching his eye as he did.
Mycroft had seen the tiny photo of Maddie that was in there hundreds of times. He’d admired how cute it was so often that when Maddie got his fifth-grade school photo taken, Greg had ordered Mycroft a pocket-sized photo of his own to put in his wallet.
But the photograph of Mycroft was new.
Mycroft remembered the day Greg had taken it. It had been a random Wednesday morning, and Greg had gone rushing for his Polaroid camera, and Mycroft had never thought to question what Greg had done with the Polaroid after – not when they’d been caught up in the excitement of their weekend away together, and then in the excitement of Greg quietly asking Mycroft to move in over dinner, the sound of the sea lapping against the shore the soundtrack to the most exciting moment of Mycroft’s life. It had been weeks since then, and Mycroft’s lease had ended, and he’d moved in with the Lestrade’s, and they were settling into their new routine together.
And Greg had apparently carried a photo of Mycroft around for months now.
“Mycroft!” Greg called again. “Did you find my wallet?”
Shaking himself out of his stupor, Mycroft headed for the door, handing Greg the ten-dollar bill he’d been looking for, barely listening as Greg handed the tip to the driver, taking their bag of takeout in exchange. Mycroft didn’t really care – the sky could fall in, there and then, and all Mycroft would care about was the Polaroid of himself that was in Greg’s wallet.
It was creased, the white strip of the Polaroid starting to fray at the edges, and Greg had put a date on the bottom in his neat handwriting, the ink starting to wear off from being tucked into the folds of Greg’s wallet for so long.
It had been loved – it had been seen, so many times over the last few months – and there was a part of Mycroft’s soul that swelled with happiness knowing how much Greg loved him.
“Hey,” Greg’s voice caught his attention, Mycroft looking up to see his boyfriend grinning back at him, eyes bright and teasing. “Earth to Mycroft Holmes.”
“Sorry,” Mycroft replied. “I got distracted.”
“By what?” Greg asked, dropping the bag of takeout on the kitchen counter, and heading straight for Mycroft. “By the thought of egg rolls?” he teased.
Mycroft laughed, shaking his head. “No,” he admitted, catching Greg by the front of his shirt, pulling him close for a kiss. “I love you.”
Greg’s face softened, a fond smile curving his mouth as he squeezed Mycroft tight. “I love you too.”
They might have been living together for months, but Mycroft’s heart still fluttered at the thought of Greg saying it back. Greg loved him. Greg Lestrade loved Mycroft Holmes, and he carried a photo of him in his wallet. Greg Lestrade loved Mycroft Holmes so much he wanted to remember him all the time – not that Mycroft would ever forget.
“You’ve got a photo of me in your wallet.”
“Oh, yeah,” Greg shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world that he just – carried a photo of Mycroft around in his wallet, as though Mycroft’s entire world wasn’t spinning at a thousand miles per hour as he tried to process the fact that Greg loved him enough to carry around a photo of him in his wallet.
“But – why?” Mycroft found himself asking.
Greg’s cheeks were flushed pink, as he replied. “Because I love you,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I wish I could have you with me all the time, but I can’t – so I just keep you in my wallet, like I do with Maddie.”
“Jesus Christ, Gregory.”
Greg let out a shocked giggle. “What?”
“You pretend like you’re not the most romantic fucking man I have ever met,” Mycroft slammed the wallet down on the hall table, shaking his head. “And then you go and do things like put a photo of me in your wallet like it’s the most normal thing in the world to do, and not the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.”
Greg’s eyes were bright, as he looked at Mycroft. “It’s easier, to be romantic with you,” he admitted. “Because I love you, Mycroft.”
“Marry me,” Mycroft demanded. He had a ring, and a plan, but he didn’t care about any of that, not anymore – it was 13:07 on a Tuesday afternoon, and he didn’t want to spend a single second more not being engaged to Greg Lestrade.
“Gregory – marry me.”
“Because I have a photo of you in my wallet?” Greg seemed confused.
“Because you have a photo of me in your wallet – and because I know you ordered that green salad, I like, even though you hate kale, because you know it’s my favourite,” Mycroft gestured at the bag Greg was still clutching. “And because you always turn off the alarm, and let me sleep, five minutes longer, and then you kiss me awake, every morning. And because you love me – you love me like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done in your life.”
Greg’s eyes were bright and shining with tears as he replied. “Loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done,” he reassured, and Mycroft had waited his entire life to hear those words from someone – to be reassured that loving Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a burden to be endured. No, that loving him was something good, something worthwhile.
“Then marry me,” Mycroft pleaded. “I’ll get down on one knee later – I’ve already got a ring, I swear to you, Greg, I do – but I’m not leaving until you say yes.”
Greg laughed, wetly, nodding furiously. “I’ve got a ring too.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes, Mycroft,” Greg reassured. “It’s always been a yes with you.”
And look –
If their takeout ends up finding a new home on the floor, it was worth the hour it took to scrub kale and guacamole and everything else out of the carpet, because a few hours later, Mycroft had a grinning Polaroid of Greg flashing his shiny new engagement ring tucked inside his own wallet, right next to a grinning Maddie.