Evening Out The Odds

Title: Evening Out The Odds
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not my characters, they are public domain. Anything that resembles Sherlock BBC belongs of course to Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss and is theirs alone. The plot is mine. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is otherwise purely coincidental.
Warning: Warning that this is a loooooong fic. Thank you for your patience...
Note: For Tammany, Mottlemoth. For the lovely Mottlemoth, who writes such amazing Mystrade and whom I look on as a bit of a kindred spirit. We share the same corner of England... And for the lovely Tammany who writes such wonderful Mystrade, I 'borrowed' Mycroft's other identity, Mr Spence, from her. Go check out Mr Spence's Repose. Kudos to Norwich Cathedral (UK) for the sermon. I have no idea what happens at Midnight Mass, but this sermon (massively abridged to fit) was just so appropriate I had to work it in.
Summary: He's not as strong as he thinks he is, but if Greg Lestrade cannot find Mycroft Holmes, how on earth can he be expected to help the man? Can two lonely men find peace at Christmas?
***
Chapter 1: You Can't Change Fate

Thinking back, Mummy’s hand on his knee had been a surprise, coming as it did mere weeks after… well, after Eurus. Mycroft envied his brother and, God help him, his sister too as he sat and listened to the music they were creating together. He could play, of course. They had all learned an instrument as children, but for Mycroft it had been the piano, and he knew he was mediocre at best. His talents had lain elsewhere, but he still experienced regret that he didn’t have the artistry that his siblings had mastered. As he let the sound wash over him, he found it made him feel more tense not less, as the chords and glissandos spilled forth with abandon. Sheer unadulterated artistic expression worthy of any concert hall in the world cascaded over him, and it would never be heard beyond the walls of Sherrinford Island. It brought a profound sense of loss to Mycroft’s heart, a heart he felt in imminent danger of losing completely. I was even prepared for that, he thought philosophically, casting his mind reluctantly back to Eurus’ sick game, when he had almost managed to goad his brother into shooting him in favour of keeping John alive. Oh, who am I kidding? I was nowhere near. Sherlock saw through that little game from the start.
——————
“Good morning, Sir. Welcome to The Grand Hotel.”
“Thank you. I have a reservation for a junior suite.”
“Very well, sir. May I have your name, please?”
“Spence, Michael Spence.”
“Ah, yes, sir. You’re in one of our junior suites, second floor, number 26. Could I just ask you to sign in here?”
He picked up the pen she offered him and signed his name with its usual flourish. “Thank you.” The Receptionist remained in ignorance of the relief signing that name brought him.
——————
Mycroft was an assessor, able to compute the correct outcome of actions and events the same way Sherlock could join the dots of a case and have the culprit worked out before the body was cold. To his cost, therefore, Mycroft had known the odds of their survival at the hands of his sister and the probability of them coming out unscathed had dipped to zero the moment he understood what was going on. What was worse was that there had been nothing he could do about it. Normally he would be able to play the political game; he could make his own moves and influence those of others, he could decide the best strategy, plot the vectors, guide the players. Just not there and then, not when they needed it the most. He had failed. He had let the side down, and he had to live with that. He was all too aware that mummy and father may have lost not just a daughter, but both their sons as well. His mother’s words—“he’s very limited”—rang in his head over and over.
——————
“I see you’re with us for Christmas, sir.”
Mr Spence glanced at her over the top of his half rim glasses. “I am.”
“New Year as well, sir?”
“I had planned to.”
“Maybe you would care to see New Year in at our party, sir? Three course meal, complimentary champagne, dance into the small hours in our conference hall?”
Mr Spence considered for a moment. “Thank you, but I already have an invitation,” he lied easily.
——————
Despite Mummy’s eventual attempt to bridge the resulting rift—Rift? More like a yawning chasm—Mycroft knew he would still be an awkward presence at the dinner table. She had even extended the usual invitation to spend Christmas with them, albeit reluctantly, but he knew it would be a tedious and exhausting exercise, one he wasn’t prepared to capitulate to. Mycroft knew the alternative was facing Christmas alone, a prospect that did not entirely cheer him, but was probably the lesser of two evils. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been alone at Christmas before. He was at once antisocial and yet part of him craved not to be completely alone. If he capitulated and went home, despite everything, he knew that nothing would be right, nothing he did would garner praise, and he wasn’t sure he had the stamina for that. He was all too aware of his guilt in the matter, and every look his mother directed at him reminded him painfully that their Christmas might have been very different.
Mycroft knew he could spend Christmas at the Diogenes, where no one would ask awkward questions. In fact no one would say anything at all, but the prospect of that also unexpectedly grated on him. He did not need silence, he needed peace, and it was a commodity that suddenly seemed to be in preciously short supply.
———————
Mr Spence offered up his credit card and passport for confirmation, and the hotel receptionist meticulously checked everything.
“Thank you, sir. That all seems to be in order.”
He smiled as she handed his ID back. She handed over his keycard, remaining completely unaware that his identification was fake.
——————
Sherlock was still curiously on his brother’s side. Beyond offering a defence to Mummy on his behalf, even though it had fallen on deaf ears, his brother seemed to have put their feud behind him, a miracle in itself.
“Don’t worry, Mycroft. They’ll come around eventually,” Sherlock tried to reassure him. “After all, you were always the favourite. Mummy won’t be able to stay mad for long, she’ll eventually realise she has nobody to torment with Christmas cheer.”
It was clear, however, that Sherlock unequivocally belonged to John Watson, heart and soul, and Mycroft was sure that Sherlock did not need his big brother any more. Whatever their plans for the festive season, Mycroft was absolutely certain those plans would not include him. Sherlock had grown and changed, and this business with Eurus seemed to have freed him from previous terrors and insecurities. Somehow, as far as their parents were concerned, Sherlock was now the grown up and Mycroft had diminished in stature and maturity.
John Watson, on the other hand, still full of anger as he was, was nevertheless finding his equilibrium as a father, albeit slowly, although his actions since his wife’s death had been dubious at best. Mycroft still could not completely forgive him over trying to scare the information out of him concerning their sister. After all, very few things terrified Mycroft, but Eurus, well, Eurus was his nemesis. It was not, however, despite what others may have thought, a terror for himself, but he knew what she was capable of, and on the world stage the fallout would have been devastating. Next to Eurus, Moriarty was inadequate, and what’s more, he had known it too. Which was possibly why the man had never sought to secure her release.
Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin had both agreed with Mycroft that Eurus was better alive than dead, despite her psychosis. Mycroft had used her intellect successfully over the years to avert more than one terrorist plot, despite her recent experiments resulting in the deaths of at least five people. She had caused those deaths and a few more, but she had saved hundreds in her relatively short life. Thus was Mycroft in a very difficult position, and trying exceptionally hard not to let it show. A rock and a hard place came to mind.
During the long hours spent before rescue had come to the island, hours sitting in the cell with only his own brain for company, not knowing if his brother was alive or dead, all Mycroft had been able to do was think. He had no idea what had happened, no contact with anyone, and it was only when his own dear Anthea had arrived with Special Ops to retake the place and free him had he learned that all three, Sherlock, John and Eurus, had survived; an outcome he had truly not been able to foresee, never mind believe possible.
——————
Greg Lestrade considered himself an ordinary man. He was nothing special or exceptional, and now he found himself thrust into an extraordinary situation. One Holmes had been enough to deal with over the last decade, never mind two. Now there are three. God help them, he thought, Sherlock’s words echoing in his head. Look after him, He’s not as strong as he thinks he is… How in Holy Hell am I going to do that, he wondered? Despite his assurances to Sherlock, Greg had no clue whether the elder Holmes would even allow him to help. He tried, of course, but he had no idea what on earth had transpired in that isolated place, and nobody was telling him.
——————
During his incarceration Mycroft had tried to meditate, but had not been properly able to concentrate. He had not wanted to sleep either, certainly not under such precarious circumstances, even had it been possible on the hard floor. He had refused point blank to touch the bed; her bed. The hours had passed slowly, with nothing physical to do, and other mental exercises had proved useless too. He was hungry, tired, stressed, and horrified. He had paced, he tried a couple of yoga positions, but nothing had really helped. He had slept eventually, dozing out of boredom, but not for long, waking at the slightest sound, and it was eerie, the lack of sound in that cell. He had tried not to contemplate being left there with no rescue. He had thought that nobody knew where he was. If Sherlock and John had met their match, if Eurus succeeded, he simply refused to entertain the outcome which would have been far worse than anything moriarty could have perpetrated…
All very well, he thought, contemplating Sherlock’s words when he had explained what Eurus had said about being alone, about having nobody. He’d had nobody either; the oldest child, the one people wanted to lead the way, to look after the littler ones, the one who always took the blame if they misbehaved on his watch. He knew he harboured resentments, the usual childhood resentments of those in power, of those who could not or would not understand. For Mycroft, it went much deeper, and included every time he had been snubbed, overlooked, misunderstood, lied to and cheated. Every single time Eurus knew she could take advantage of him, wrap him around her little finger, blackmail him and outthink him, score points and undermine their parents’ faith in him, eroded what little self confidence he had. It was she had goaded Sherlock into calling him names, telling him he was fat. She was the one demanding that they all use their most unusual name of the three their parents had bestowed on them, because they were unique in the world and would make sure people remembered them. Going to boarding school was both blessing and curse, he was out from under her influence, but he was made vulnerable to his peers.
When the music had finally stopped, he had disengaged from Mummy’s hand, and stood, nodding to Sherlock, and Eurus (who ignored him), and leading the way out. He saw everyone onto the helicopter, and waved it off. As the helicopter became a dot in the distance, Mycroft stood on the parapet, the wind tugging at the fabric of his trousers. He peered over and down, wondered what it would feel like to plunge into the foaming sea below and never take another breath, to crash onto the rock in a grotesque tangle of limbs and torn flesh and bloodied bones. He wondered who would care. He would be replaced, he knew. It might not be easy, but they would find another to assume his code name, another Iceman to assume the Antarctica epithet. Even if they decided to choose another name, there would be a fourth person from their cadre of friends, a fourth confident added to their inner circle. After all, nobody was indispensable.
Mycroft had some small gratification concerning the words that Lady Smallwood had shared with him when they all thought he had barely survived the 221b bomb blast.
“You have no idea how pleased I am that you are still hale and hearty, Mycroft,” she had said on his return. “I am profoundly grateful to the higher powers that you are still part of our little cadre. Lord knows what I would do without you.” Her squeeze of his hand had not gone unnoticed by himself, even if both of them had taken pains to make sure the others had not seen it. It had telegraphed a need, a relief, a profound hope that he was still among the living, and still her ally. He suspected entirely selfish reasons however. She had approached him, on more than one occasion, inviting him to hers, the implications heavy in the air. He had feigned disinterest, incomprehension, and let her think what she wished. It would have been a mistake to form such an alliance even if he had been interested in her, which he was not. He was a confirmed gay man of middle years and had no desire to compromise his work by dating a colleague, male or female.
Mycroft eventually stood back from the turmoil below, but slowly, and swiftly contemplated the merits of ending it all. Yet that was all he did; contemplate. He sighed softly, the small sound whipped away in the wind. It hardly mattered. It was monumentally surpassed by the tsunami currently trying to rip through his soul, a seismic tidal wave of mammoth proportions against which everything else seemed minor. He went inside. The helicopter would be back for him soon, to whisk him back to London and to the yoke of office. Eurus was once again silent, ignoring him, not to mention the world in general, as she occupied her head in splendid isolation.
In a way, Sherlock was not alone in respect of Eurus having made him what he was. Everything Mycroft was, every decision he had ever made, had also been because of his sister, as well as his brother. He and his brother were defined by what she had made of them, by what she had done to them. He would never forgive her that influence over his life. He picked up a large glass paperweight from the desk and rolled it from hand to hand. It had belonged to David, the sacrificial lamb of Sherrinford. Mycroft walked out onto the office balcony. He tried not to look at the bloodstain on the floor, took aim with the glass ball instead and hurled it out over the parapet, straight onto the rocks below. He watched it shatter into a million fragments, just like his heart felt it was shattering, over and over and over again. He angrily contemplated arranging Eurus’ death once and for all this time. He wondered if he might engineer her ‘suicide’, by throwing her to her death on those same rocks. He wondered briefly if it might assuage his anger toward her, then he dismissed the thought. It would not. He would most likely remain angry for the rest of his days.
He laughed, a touch hysterical, remembering the game of Operation that Sherlock had insisted they play as he was trying to work through the Moran plot. Can’t handle a broken heart, brother? No, no, he could not, but he was damned if he was going to admit it. I suppose there is a heart somewhere inside me. Had he really been prepared to die in favour of John Watson? Your loss would break my Heart. He knew that was true. Eurus had terrified him with the very real possibility of that outcome. All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. How many times could your heart break and not leave you in tatters to blow away on the wind? He had honestly believed Sherlock would shoot him, and considering his heart carefully, Mycroft realised that he really had been prepared for it.
He had known in whatever passed for his heart that Sherlock without John would never survive, and would at best be a shadow of what he had been. At worst, he would seek to end it all, and deprive Mycroft of his only brother. Mycroft had to admit he had not foreseen what came next, and had honestly believed in that precise second that his brother would shoot himself, just to foil his sister. As much as their ordeal had been an experiment of Eurus’ making, it was one that Sherlock was also playing, because despite the fact that this was not of his making, Sherlock lived for The Work; for experimentation and observation and deduction. Mycroft knew that a part of Sherlock thrived on it, as did Captain Watson. Mycroft might play a political game but Sherlock was a past master at playing a psychological one.
It left him feeling cold, and alone, and quietly despairing.
——————
The only contact Greg had so far had with Mycroft was when Anthea had called him in the aftermath of Sherrinford, explaining briefly that Mr Holmes wanted to speak to him.
“Mr Holmes?”
“Inspector…I...I was wanting to...well, to apprise you of the current...situation.” Mycroft sounded uncertain, shaken. That was scary, considering the man’s usual level of self control.
“Are you alright? You sound a bit...well, out of whack.”
“I am fine. I… find myself a little indisposed. Is Sherlock alright?”
“Yes, yes he is. John too, and your sister…”
“Eurus? What is her situation?”
“She’s alive, and in secure transport. When I finish talking to you, we’re moving her to a specified high security hospital to await further instruction.”
“She must not be allowed to come into contact with anyone. Anyone, you understand?
Greg had heard the edge of panic in Mycroft’s urgent tone so he replied calmly, reassuringly. “Your assistant gave me instructions, Mr Holmes. They’ll be followed to the letter. I’m taking personal responsibility and I am travelling with her. I’ll make sure nobody talks to her, not even me.”
“Good. Please, tell Sherlock I am alright?”
“Of course. What the Hell happened exactly? Can you tell me anything?”
In his usual perfunctory way, which meant being economical with the truth and obviously leaving out some of the more traumatic details, Mycroft filled him in with the events of the last 48 hours. It meant that Lestrade the policeman had needed to read between the lines yet again. To Greg the man, however, Mycroft had sounded shaken, but it was obvious that he was profoundly relieved to hear that Sherlock and John were safe. Beyond that, Greg was not allowed to know more. National Security apparently, and he was nowhere near as high up the food chain as he would need to be to find out the complete details. Those would be buried under a D notice that would last a century at least, and although Greg had signed the Official Secrets Act, he was still in no position to even enquire about it, much less press for more information.
If he wanted more details, then he would have to swallow his pride, and go call on Sherlock.
———————
Debriefing was expected, but much more intrusive than even Mycroft Holmes had anticipated. Searching questions were asked, his integrity doubted, his work examined for loopholes, his whole life scrutinised for flaws. It was exhausting, despite his name being exonerated in the end. He felt mentally flayed; exposed and vulnerable. The pressure was intense, and suddenly Mycroft found himself standing there in his office, a sheaf of files in his hand, Anthea speaking to him about...something, and he realised he had heard absolutely nothing of what she had said.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I am afraid I don’t feel quite myself. Can you handle...whatever it is? What was it exactly?”
Anthea had looked a little nonplussed, but rallied, and outlined the forthcoming talks with South Korea. Mycroft forced himself to listen carefully, then suggested she pass the file to Love or Langdale. He finished his immediate business and then went home.
“Alicia?”
“Mycroft, how are you? That lovely assistant of yours told me you were...under the weather? Don’t worry, I’ll handle South Korea.”
“Thank you. I am certainly not feeling my best,” Mycroft admitted. “I thought a holiday…”
“That sounds sensible, Mycroft. They were too hard on you.”
“They were doing their jobs. Anything less and I would have worried…”
“But they had no call to be so searching.”
“They had every right, Alicia. It is their job to be searching. Otherwise what would be the point?”
“Well, your record is exemplary.”
“And yet my brother is a murderer and my sister is a psychopath. In anybody else, that would amount to career suicide.”
“Need I remind you, Mycroft, you are not simply anybody else. Your asset is your omnipotence. Your skill is your insight.”
“Yes, well, that omnipotence has been severely compromised.”
Alicia sighed down the phone. “Arrange some leave, Mycroft. Tie up as many loose ends first, if you will. Let me know when you decide to go, but go, put some space between you and your work. Find your balance again.”
Mycroft therefore decided that removing himself from London—from his job, from his parents, and from life in general—would be beneficial to his recovery. He would spend Christmas elsewhere, where he was just another face in a crowd. He needed the retreat, the space. Oh, he would still be contactable, but ostensibly out of reach unless an apocalypse threatened. He knew Lady Smallwood would honour that and she also promised to field any enquiries with her usual cryptic charm when he called her again to let her know the details.
“Do stay safe, Mycroft,” she said gently. “Take all the time you need, but I shall inform you if the sharks start to circle in your absence.”
“Please do,” he had said, tucking more socks into his suitcase. “I’m not going far. Certainly not abroad. I thought York. I remember going once as a boy. Quaint town, and I have always had a weakness for English history. It is supposed to be pretty at Christmas.”
“Playing the tourist, Mycroft? That’s not like you.” There was a little mirth in her voice, teasing him.
“Why? I know nobody up there, and no one knows me. It will be boring, and quiet, and I think it might be what I need to…” he paused, thoughtful. “To regroup. I shall be gone, I think, until well into the New Year...”
“Not spending the festive season with your parents then?”
“I regret I am still persona non grata where they are concerned. Their happiness does not require my presence, certainly not now. They have been quite vocal in their disapproval. I shall be more than happy on my own.”
“No company then?”
“Heavens no. I wouldn’t inflict myself on anyone else. Besides, I think I need… quiet, balance, a chance to breathe. Alone protects me.” There was a small silence at the end of the phone before she replied, as though she was considering his words with care.
“Take my advice, Mycroft,” she said carefully. “This is not a rehearsal. Do not remain alone forever. Regrouping is fine, but everyone needs the kind of comfort that only another soul can provide, sooner or later.” When he did not immediately reply she added, “Do take care of yourself, and send me a postcard?”
“Certainly,” he replied, with more warmth than he had expected to feel. “Yourself likewise. I take it the fallout from this...episode was not too arduous to contain?”
“There was no fallout, Mycroft. Beyond the initial tizzy you threw people into when it was believed that you were severely injured in the blast and unlikely to pull through, the debriefing sessions caused the most concern, but even that has subsided, as you know. There was nothing that couldn’t be smoothed over. So go on your holiday, Mycroft. We’ll see you in the New Year, rejuvenated, I hope.”
A day later, he was taking a train north, first class, watching the frosty countryside speed past, a blur of green and brown and grey, blue sky above the trees and fluffy white clouds almost at a standstill overhead. The winter sun was harsh and bright and slanting in the window at an inconvenient angle and he reached to pull the blind. As the journey progressed, however, the weather changed, as was its wont in England. Blue skies turned pale pewter, and the world was bleached of colour. There were a few optimistic snow flurries. By the time they arrived, and the guard was announcing that the next station would be York, a light covering of snow lay on the ground and the wind had a distinct bite to it.
Mycroft alighted into the cold northern air, his Crombie overcoat more than proof against the cold, a soft cashmere scarf nestled around his neck, and soft leather gloves cladding his long fingers. He adjusted his sheepskin hat and spent a brief moment admiring the architectural curve of the Victorian station roof, then he set off, walking purposefully but not hurriedly. It was too cold to linger. He was somewhat pleased to see black cabs waiting outside under the portico but the one thing he did recall from his childhood holiday was that nowhere was far away in this city. The five star Grand Hotel was quite literally a few minutes walk away. Despite the snow, it was a little too near to take a cab. Mycroft consulted his phone to find the direction, then took a firmer hold of the handle of his suitcase and wheeled it behind him toward the Pelican crossing. It trailed in his wake, like some desultory hound.
He navigated his way through the sea of human life, observing, assessing, cataloguing as he went, doing his best to avoid seeing everything as a potential threat. He splashed through the slush as a gaggle of teenage girls dashed past him giggling and texting madly. A mother negotiated a heavily laden pushchair past him, the swaddled child within barely visible. Mycroft thought it might be a girl, given the alarming amount of pink, but who knew these days? The child’s lungs were fully functioning at any rate. He gladly left them behind, and passed under the arch of the city walls. Their imposing golden stone had never failed to impress him as a child and it was still doing a creditable attempt, despite the civic vandalism that had allowed the City Fathers licence to create two huge archways to allow the Victorian trams to pass through the medieval defences. Once through the arches, ahead of him lay the former headquarters of the North Eastern Railway Company, a magnificent brick and stone Edwardian building which was now a five star hotel and spa.
Mycroft was greeted with polite reserve at the check-in desk, the immaculately uniformed girl who passed him the form to sign in reminding him of an embryonic Anthea.
“Good morning, Sir. Welcome to The Grand Hotel.” She looked to be still in her teens, barely more than an A Level student.
“Thank you. I have a reservation for a junior suite.”
“Very well, sir. May I have your name, please?”
“Spence, Michael Spence.”
“Ah, yes, sir. You’re in one of our junior suites, second floor, number 26. Could I just ask you to sign in here?”
“Thank you.”
After their brief exchange and his deflection from being invited to the New Year party, her scrutiny of his ID and complete unawareness of its lack of authenticity, she explained that breakfast was between 7am and 9am, and then called a young man across to take him up to his room.
Up on the second floor, his room may have been a junior suite, but looked anything but juvenile. It was amply suited to his needs, plushly decorated and spacious. There was a comfortable double bed, a separate living space, a large bathroom with freestanding bath and walk-in shower; in short, ample luxury and comfort. Just what the doctor ordered. Well, Mycroft felt he would have, had he consulted a doctor. He tipped his guide, a rather young man who had been assigned to bring his case and let him in and explain the rooms facilities, swapping the room’s key card for a generous note. Honestly, the staff here were nothing if not youthful, because this one also looked as though he were on day-release training from school; fresh faced, shy and still not completely comfortable in his own skin, never mind his uniform. He ducked his head and murmured a thank you, before leaving hurriedly as if scared Mycroft might proposition him.
Mycroft eyed the bed and wondered if he shouldn’t just have a shower and make use of the Egyptian cotton sheets the hotel seemed so fond of advertising. A quick pang of regret flashed as he noted it was a double bed and yet he wasn’t sharing it with anyone, but the feeling had gone as fast as it arrived and he was left tired and regretful of the whole damn business and… he took a deep steadying breath. He really needed to eat. He brought his wits under control again, and thought logically.
Shower, change, go find a meal, possibly in one of the hotel’s restaurants, then he could sleep. Or go for a walk, enjoy what little afternoon sunshine there was left, reacquaint himself with the historic city, and possibly recall a time when he had been truly happy. After all, that was partly the reason for his choice of destination; because he remembered coming here when Sherlock was a baby, before Eurus had come along the following year. It was the only time he could remember that he had actually enjoyed himself on holiday as a child. They had stayed there three whole weeks. He was with his parents and his baby brother, anticipating William growing up to be able to play with him, to enable Mycroft to teach him things, about dinosaurs and fossils and Romans and Vikings and pirates and Narnia and the only limit had been his imagination, and he had always had a very good imagination. Before mummy had born Eurus… And William Sherlock Scott and Harry Mycroft Andrew were joined by Felicity Eurus Sophia and everything had changed. His parents had always had a way with names.
——————
Greg Lestrade turned up at 221b just as John was heading out with Rosie. He helped him manhandle the pushchair down the steps and smiled, chucking Rosie gently beneath her chin, making her giggle. He grinned, good mood restored, and asked after father and daughter.
“Oh, you know, doing okay,” John admitted. “How about you? You look a bit...well, aimless?”
“I need to talk to himself about something,” Greg said. “Is he in?”
“COME UP, LESTRADE,” came the shout down the stairs.
“I’d say that was a yes,” John said with a grin of his own.
“Take care, John. Oh, I brought the lassy an advent calendar. I know I’m a bit late…”
“A bit? December started last week,” John replied with a chuckle.
“Yeah well, better late than never, I just thought she might like opening the doors…”
“She’s hardly old enough for that, Greg.”
“Okay, then daddy can open the doors, and probably eat the chocolates as well then?”
John chuckled. “Not if Sherlock gets there before me, but thanks, Greg, it was thoughtful of you.” John checked his watch. “Best be off, I’m working this afternoon, I have to drop Rosie off on Molly. I’ll see you later.” Greg smiled, waved him off and then trotted off up the stairs.
“Sherlock?” The flat was now quiet, sans the maelstrom of a very young child and its parent, and Greg found Sherlock on the sofa, as of old, laid out flat with his fingers steepled under his chin again, his typical pose.
“Ah, Greg. How are you?”
For a brief moment it felt as if the world had tilted on its axis. Sherlock remembering my name is amazing enough, but asking how I am? “Fine, fine… How are you?”
“Enjoying the respite. I never appreciated peace and quiet before… well, before John became a father. So, why are you lying, Greg? You are not fine, so do tell me what is bothering you so much that you feel obliged to lie about it?”
“Okay, well, no, I agree, I’m not fine. Look, you asked me to take care of your brother, but beyond that phone call that Anthea made telling me Mycroft wanted to talk to me, the one where he asked if I knew your status and proceeded to give me a very basic rundown on what had happened, well, I‘ve heard nothing more and I’m not allowed near him. It’s worse than a restraining order, Sherlock. I can’t get access, never mind find him. He’s not at home, or at work. That assistant of his keeps telling me he’s on leave but she won’t say where.”
“Of course she won’t. More than her job is worth.”
“So, Is he alright? Do you know? I know I told you I’d look after him but he’s not here to look after. So...any ideas?”
“Seriously? This is what you need my help with? Lestrade, a baby could do better. You’re a police officer. Go investigate.”
“Well, you asked me to look after your brother, and I am attempting to do exactly that, but...if he’s not here, well, I can’t, can I? Now will you help? I admit I am a bit concerned now. He’s gone, and I’m not high enough clearance to access records or be told where he is.”
“He’s gone away for a couple of weeks. He wanted some space,” and Sherlock left air quotes hanging there. “He’s taken a train up to York, staying there for Christmas…”
“York? What’s he doing there? It’s all...chocolate and...Romans? Or Vikings, I can never remember which one.”
“Both, or all, depending on your worldview. The city is two thousand years old, and archaeological remains found there are among the finest in the world. They have Roman, Viking, Saxon, medieval, take your pick, but alas for my brother, no dinosaurs.”
“Dinosaurs? Didn’t know your brother was into dinosaurs.”
“He isn’t now. He was when we were children though, the same way I was obsessed with pirates. He can just about name every bone in a dinosaur body and tell at a glance which species is which. Needless to say, when Jurassic Park came out he nearly wet himself, he was so excited. He was the first at the cinema…”
Greg laughed. “Probably picking out all the faults.” Then he sobered. “So where is he now exactly?”
“York.”
“Yes, you said that, but where exactly?”
Sherlock stared at him. “It’s a provincial market town in the north of England with a popul…”
“Sherlock, I know where and what York is, but where exactly is he in it? What hotel?”
“Oh. Well, I shouldn’t really tell you. He told me in no uncertain terms that he wanted time to, as he put it, regroup, so he can come back fighting fit. Well, those are his words, not mine, but it’s what he does. Mycroft is nothing if not predictable. If things get too much, he retreats to somewhere nobody knows him, assumes one of his aliases and plays the tourist for a while.”
“Alone isn’t necessarily the best thing for him. He’s been through what amounts to Hell for him. Surely he needs a friendly face.”
“Greg, please, my brother doesn’t do friends. If you thought I was bad, I am nothing compared to Mycroft, and please do not throw yourself at him. He wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“I am not about to throw myself at him. I am not a teenager with a crush. What do I do though? How can I stand idly by and let him go through this without support? How can you, for that matter?”
“Because my brother has any number of health professionals straining at the leash to be allowed to care for him, and he will have to submit to some form of therapy, otherwise his little cadre of cohorts won’t let him carry on with his job. If you think he is powerful, you have not met the people he works with. In any case, Mycroft would not appreciate you dashing up to York on a whim. Besides, you couldn’t even afford the place he’s staying in.”
“Thanks for that. Not exactly a pauper you know. Anyway, that means you know where he is then?”
“Yes, of course. I never said I didn’t.” Sherlock eyed Greg as he stood there frowning. He sighed dramatically and raked a hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll text him. If he says yes, then you can go.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, I can’t do what you asked me to.”
“Noted.”
————————
Mycroft glanced at the caller ID on his phone and frowned. It was his first full day in the city, and he was walking, just idly walking its narrow streets around the old medieval center, enjoying the architecture of elegant Georgian townhouses and the Gothic cathedral with its mellow stone tracery. He put his phone away, irritated. He had no idea why his brother should be trying to contact him right then. Besides, he had found the very narrow Shambles, and he was not about to allow distractions. The cobbled lane was impossibly narrow, with its jettied houses, each floor jutting out a little over the one below until they were so close at the top that you could shake hands with the person opposite if you both reached out the window of the third floor. Mycroft could imagine the butchers displaying their wares on the wide sills below the windows and hanging joints of meat on the hooks that were still embedded into the lintels above. No direct sunlight would penetrate a street so narrow, perfect for keeping the meat from going off too quickly. The street would have been impossibly noisy and noxious, offal on the cobbles and blood running in the gutters from the yards at the back where each butcher would slaughter his own beasts. He imagined the people in rough wool and linen, men in caps and doublets, ladies with long skirts hiked clear of the muck, clacking along with wooden pattens on their feet and baskets on arms…
Now there was little sign of its former history in the array of exclusive jewellery, eclectic gifts, high end souvenirs and vintage wares that now occupied the narrow lane. On impulse he ducked into a jewellers specialising in amber and jet, and bought a rather elegant bracelet for Anthea that had caught his eye from its vantage point in the window. The warm stone glinted from it’s silver setting in the shop lights, prompting a small smile. That young woman deserved far more for her unwavering loyalty, but Mycroft was aware that too much would not be welcome. She was almost rigid in her professionalism, something she had learned from him, and he knew there was a line that neither of them ever crossed. Before he left, he also purchased a modest jet bracelet for his mother, something understated which she would appreciate, because when all was said and done, he was still her eldest son.
As he continued on his eye was caught by a specialist tea shop, and in he went, browsing the shelves with interest. He settled on the hand rolled Jasmine Dragon Pearls, as the name intrigued him, but he liked jasmine tea and this one sounded divine. He also decided on the triple A grade Matcha green tea and a bamboo whisk. It was a long time since he had made tea in the proper way and it was a ritual he had forgotten in his busy life. Six months in the diplomatic corp and a prolonged visit to Japan had found him seeking out proper tuition for a ceremony he had always longed to learn, and learn he did, from a master, who had grudgingly admitted he had reached a satisfactory standard by the time Mycroft had to return to the UK. Mycroft took the praise for what it was, knowing that most pupils never attained even half his competency. One day he would have to invite the good Detective Inspector to partake of it…
Mycroft dismissed the thought. Never in a million years would Gregory Lestrade be interested in such a thing. A small voice told him that there was no way he could know for certain, but his statistical voice told him it was an unlikely probability—this was a man who frequented public houses based on how big their flat screen monitor was in order to watch a football match and simultaneously imbibe a few pints of whatever beer they had on tap—and Mycroft smiled regretfully. It would have been pleasant though, and would remain a nice fantasy; his guest in a formal kimono, seated across from him, his own deft hands sure with tea and bowl and whisk, the contemplative quiet, the companionship…
He recalled the text, and read it quickly.
Brother dear, would you be up for a visitor? SH
Mycroft took less than a moment to reply, then immediately switched his phone off. He wanted no further distractions. The last thing he needed was his brother showing up.
Under no circumstances. I am trying to find some peace. Leave me alone. MH
Over the next few days he spent more than one pleasant lunchtime in Betty’s tearooms, indulging in fluffy scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, or an omelet, or whatever took his fancy, diet be damned. It wasn’t lost on him that the macaron were half the price of their equivalent in London, and he indulged in a dozen from the tea room’s own shop, delighting in the old world charm of the polished brass and glass and marble countertops, not to mention the other excellently made patisseries. He also decided on something called a Fat Rascal, which turned out to be a rather large fruit scone, which he had to buy for the name alone. The assistants in their blouses and aprons resembled Edwardian shop girls, and there was nobody looking over his shoulder and nobody making comments as to his weight as he bought the treats. He smiled, actually smiled, at the girl over the counter and bore his goods away with gentle delight in his heart. A little nagging voice kept suggesting it would be even better if he were sharing this, but he ignored it, and went on his way.
The next text from Sherlock came on his third day there.
Need to talk, SH
Well, I do not. MH
He wasn’t disturbed any more that day.
Over the next few days however, there were more texts, which he deleted without looking at them.
As he went into the lobby of the hotel on his sixth day, however, his phone chimed again. Eleven texts had been sent in the last couple of hours. Mycroft rolled his eyes and made to erase them but something made him pause and actually read them through.
Would you answer your damned texts, Mycroft, SH
I need to talk to you, now. SH
Please. SH
I hope you are enjoying your break, but I do need your input, brother. SH
Answer your bloody texts, Mycroft. SH
For God’s sake, Lestrade is asking about where you are. Can I tell him? SH
Do you want me to beg? SH
I might have asked him to look after you, and he can’t do that for me unless you are actually here. SH
He wants to come see you. SH
Can I tell him where you are? SH
For the love of whatever you hold dear these days, Mikey, please answer your texts. SH
That had to have been Sherlock’s attempt to needle him, calling him Mikey. Only their mother did that.
Insulting me is not going to work, Sherly. MH
At least you answered my text. Lestrade is driving me nuts. He keeps pestering to join you up north. SH
Shall I send him anyway? I cannot believe he’s taking my request seriously. SH
Oh, bugger. Sherlock… Mycroft sighed and went to change into something more comfortable for dinner while he composed a reply in his head. He favoured his country gentleman tweeds and moleskin trousers when he was on holiday, but for dinner in this place perhaps something slightly more appropriate. Dinner here was far less formal than some, but still, there were standards to be maintained. He chose his dark blue suit, white shirt, brown brogues. He texted Sherlock on his way downstairs in the lift.
Brother, dear. Apologies. Deflect him, please. MH
I can’t. I’ve tried. He’s worried about you. I asked him to look after you, and he said he would. SH
Look after me? What on earth for? I’ve had worse, Sherlock. MH
No, you haven’t. SH
Mycroft toyed with an ‘Oh, yes, I have’ exchange and decided against it. Besides, Sherlock would most likely not pick up on the popular culture reference and it would frustrate him.
Tell him I shall be back in London in the New Year, he can see me then. MH
Not good enough. SH
Then why text me to ask, Sherlock? If you are going to send him anyway, why bother getting in touch? MH
Because you should not be alone. SH
Mycroft stared at his phone incredulously. He tried and failed to process the change in his brother. Sherlock wasn’t the same man the Detective Inspector had dragged out of the flat in Montague Street, semi-conscious, high on a cocktail of dangerous drugs and convinced Mycroft was his arch enemy. He was metamorphosing into something new, something altogether different.
Besides, I asked him to look after you. SH
Why in God’s name did you do that, Sherlock? MH
Because she abandoned you in that cell, Mycroft. I know what that did to you. SH
It’s been three months, Sherlock. MH
Exactly. And I’ll bet you haven’t yet processed any of it. SH
That is none of your business. Besides how on earth would you know what it did to me? MH
Because I know what being locked in that cell would have done to me, and as you are so fond of pointing out, if you think I’m slow, you are living in a world of goldfish. I know well what it must have done to you. SH
Mycroft pondered on that. Sherlock was often more perceptive that Mycroft gave him credit for. Somehow it warmed him, that his brother admitted to understanding the effect all this had had on him. Another text popped up before he could reply.
And of course it’s my business. You’re my brother, and you’re family. John says we need to care for our family, because at the end of the day, brother, family is all we have. SH
All this talk of families… Mycroft shook himself and ordered a bottle of rather expensive wine. He felt the occasion warranted it. Less than a decade ago, he had lived with the expectation that Sherlock would not live much beyond thirty. Mycroft’s assessment of the facts provided him with only one outcome for his brother, and that outcome had been bleak. Then a certain Detective Inspector had come on the scene, turned his brother around, helped him get clean and suddenly Mycroft was facing another possibility, that his brother might actually survive to old age. When Doctor Watson had arrived that outcome had dropped again, considering the precarious nature of their work, and more than once Mycroft had been teetering on the edge of an abyss, facing his heart being shattered again by his brother’s inevitable downfall. Throughout it all, Inspector Lestrade had been the steadying factor, the grounding force, holding things together, guiding and guarding. Mycroft realised that he owed Gregory Lestrade a great deal, and the man had no idea.
Tell him if he is not prepared to wait until I return home, he can come here if he really insists, but please keep me apprised. There are excursions I wish to make and I would prefer to be here to greet him should he decide to make the journey north. MH
Tell him I can stand him a night in the hotel, he can satisfy your curiosity as to my well being and then return to London posthaste. MH
Thank you, Mycroft. I shall inform him of your decision. And I am not curious, he is. SH
Which was why Mycroft was somewhat tipsy as he made his way to his room later. He was categorically not drunk, but he was definitely over the drink drive limit, which was good because he wasn’t driving, and he allowed himself a small chuckle at that, but he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t use his key card (despite it being third time lucky) and he remembered to hang out the Do Not Disturb note on the door before retiring. Just in case. There were no more texts to disturb him.
He stood at the bay window the following morning, slightly the worse for wear and appreciative of the lie-in and a room service breakfast, and looked out on the Cathedral and the medieval heart of the city, the river, the walls… Such a provincial little city by comparison to the capital, struggling to keep up with the world, retiring into its history as a refuge from the larger concerns of the Nation as a whole, falling back on its ability to present two thousand years of the history of England encompassed within its walls to millions of tourists and school children. Sometimes, Mycroft felt just as ancient, and just as left behind.
——————
Later that morning found Mycroft ambling through the streets again, taking his time about it all, visiting the Cathedral and the medieval heart of the city. He followed a tiny alleyway with Georgian houses hidden at the end, found a tiny eclectic antiquarian bookshop and treated himself to a few small first editions, and then stumbled across a superb Gentleman’s outfitter down a side street near the cathedral. The shop was old and traditional and sported a wonderful collection of ties. Mycroft found that he could not resist buying a few to add to his collection. Two shirts and a new waistcoat also joined the contents of the outfitter’s monogrammed carrier bag. His purchases were carefully placed in the bag by the respectful assistant behind the even more traditional wooden counter. He felt a little triumphant as he left, and took a detour down another side street, and then another, indulging in not having to hurry anywhere at all.
His phone pinged as he was looking for a place to have lunch.
Lestrade is planning on taking a train tomorrow lunchtime. Apparently he has arranged a few days off. Sh
He is asking if you meant it about finding him a hotel room. SH
Mycroft perused the texts and then decided on Betty’s again. He replied as he walked down the pedestrian street toward the cafe.
By all means, of course I meant it. What time is he arriving? Text me his number and I shall take it from there. MH
What am I doing? Mycroft wondered. What on earth am I thinking, practically inviting the man up here to spend time together. Lestrade felt duty bound to keep an eye on him, because of Sherlock, he thought bitterly. Is Sherlock the only thing we have in common? Mycroft hoped not but feared it was true. He was also reluctant to relinquish his solitude. But Alicia Smallwood’s words came back to him. This is not a rehearsal. Do not remain alone too long. Regrouping is fine, but everyone needs the kind of comfort that only another soul can provide sooner or later.
Can I find that? Do I want to? Mycroft had no idea.
—————
Greg caught the train and travelled second class crammed in between small kids with a single mum and Uni students with too much luggage all returning home for the Christmas holidays. His own modest bag had been cobbled together at the last minute, a squashy leather overnight that had seen a bit too much throwing around. Some of the stitches were fraying, and he had tried to sew one handle back on somewhat unsuccessfully, but it was all he had. The matching luggage set he and his wife had shared had gone with her, her belongings packed into every spare holdall and suitcase they possessed. The shoulder strap was fine anyway, and he didn’t have a great deal to bring to weigh that heavily on the handles. Still, despite a certain frayed look around the edges, which he was chagrined to note applied to himself as well as to his luggage, Greg was sentimentally attached to that bag. It had seen some great gigs, that bag, been thrown in too many car boots to count, perched on too many train luggage racks, stowed above airplane lockers and strapped on the back of motorbikes. Like him, it was getting a bit long in the tooth, but it was his favourite travel bag and good things happened when he used it. God knew he needed a bit of good stuff to happen.
Greg had to admit to himself that he was at least partially looking forward to all this. A break from the rat race, in somewhere new, no work for a few days, apart from making sure Sherlock’s brother wasn’t about to leap off a bridge… That might be a whole new job in itself. He hoped he was equal to the task. It’s just you and me, Bag, he thought, and smiled to himself. When he looked up, Single Mum was smiling back at him.
“Penny for them?” she asked, a little coy. She was pretty, he thought, in a slightly worn kind of way. It was the parental effect, Greg knew. Life, and kids, just wore you down.
He smiled back. Time to deflect, he thought. “Just daydreaming,” he replied. “I’m heading north to meet my partner.”
“Well, damn,” she murmured smiling. “I hope she treats you right.”
“It’s a he,” Greg lied, “and yes, he does, thanks.”
“No offence,” she said with a sigh. “Story of my life, the good ones are either taken or gay, and you’re both.”
He chuckled. “Sorry,” he offered.
She grinned at him. “Not your fault you tick all my boxes.”
“Is that so?” He extended a hand. “Greg,” he said by way of introduction.
“Denise.”
They fell to discussing life, the universe, everything, as one does on a train with a total stranger, thrown together for brief hours, and knowing it was unlikely they would ever meet again. When the train conductor announced their next station would be York, Greg got up saying “Well, this is me.” He retrieved his bag and made ready to leave, shrugging his coat on and checking his pockets for wallet and phone.
“Have a nice life,” she said brightly, smiling. “Tell him I’m jealous.”
He grinned back and shouldered his bag. Before he made his way to the door, however, he glanced back down at her. On the spur of the moment he leaned down conspiratorially and murmured in her ear. “Have a good life yourself, Denise, and for the record, you tick quite a few of my boxes too.” She looked up, startled. He winked, and she blushed a little. “Happy Christmas,” he said, and gave her a wave as the door slid shut on him, and her, and left him with a few disturbing thoughts.
Why the hell am I here? He’s not my partner, and he probably wouldn’t even welcome any advances I make, so what the Holy Hell made me come all this way? Not just an obligation to Sherlock, he considered. There was something more there, and he wasn’t sure what, that was the disturbing factor.
Greg had arrived in the city in the early dark of the wintery late afternoon, the weekday bustle flowing around him as he made his way to the hotel. He realised it was within a few minutes walk from the station and, like Mycroft, had decided not to bother with a cab. On the approach to the hotel, he too passed under impressive city walls. He could also see the river that bisected the city and beyond it the floodlit towers of the cathedral rising above the skyline, the tallest thing on the horizon. In the festively decorated hotel lobby, Greg went immediately to Reception and, as instructed, asked after Mr Spence. Mycroft had texted him earlier with his change of name. The receptionist wouldn’t give him the room number before making a private call to the room to check he was both welcome and expected.
“Mr Spence says to tell you he will be down in a moment, sir. Would you like to wait for him in the lounge?”
“Thanks, yes.” She pointed him in the right direction and he went into the plushly decorated area that she indicated and sat down to wait. He admired the tastefully decorated Christmas trees for a moment before picking up a complimentary newspaper off a coffee table, and sarted browsing the articles for a while. He kept part of his attention on the other people wandering the area while part wondered exactly how long Mycroft would keep him waiting.
Mycroft saw Greg first, and hung back for a moment to assess. The man was relaxed, reading a paper, his bag beside his feet; his...rather shabby and much-mended bag, which gave Mycroft pause. In fact, the Inspector looked more than a little careworn. Not taking care of himself, but why? He was divorced, and is dating again, but not successfully. He’s certainly not living with anyone. He’s not being looked after either, that is certain, so not living with family. In fact, there are more wrinkles, if anything, and not just in his clothing. He’s lost a little weight and there are dark smudges under his eyes; not getting enough sleep to add to the list. Worry? He does not look agitated. Careworn, yes, but not unduly anxious. Recent stresses then. Possibly a hard case, or worrying about Sherlock.
Mycroft knew Sherlock considered the inspector to be something of a father figure in his life, despite needing to be dragged over hot coals for him to admit such. Sherlock also trusted the Inspector. He had enlisted the man in looking after his brother, not something he would have entrusted to just anyone. Mycroft sighed and schooled his features into a congenial welcoming face. He walked into view and headed for his...visitor? Guest? He wasn’t sure what Gregory Lestrade was to him. If he was anything. Oddly enough, Mycroft could not read the man as easily as he could other people. While he might read his history in his clothes and his bag and the shadows beneath his eyes, reading his current demeanor and state of mind was less easy. Detective Inspector Lestrade was familiar with deflecting scrutiny, adopting a bland mask that was designed to misdirect. Mycroft was quietly impressed. Not many agents could adopt such a poker face.
Greg saw the movement and looked up, face breaking into a wide smile as Mycroft approached. He looks...rather chipper, to be honest. But. He might be fooling the rest of the world but Mycroft Holmes wasn’t fooling Greg Lestrade. Greg could see the lines about his mouth and eyes that spoke of stress, and he looked...diminished, somehow. He was less than the imposing man the inspector knew from the brief times they had encountered each other. The recent events had taken their toll then. He put aside the paper and rose to his feet, reaching to shake the other man’s hand. Firm dry grip, steady, holding on a little longer than strictly necessary, a grip designed to welcome and reassure. Fine, if that’s the way you want to play it, two can play at that game, Greg thought. He returned the handshake with his own firm grip, betraying nothing.
“Mr Spence, hello.”
“Inspector. How nice of you to come all this way.” Mycroft extended a hand and so did Greg, and they shook hands amicably.
“Well, your brother asked it of me. He… well, let’s just say he was concerned.” “Well, I am certain you can tell him that I am perfectly fine, and enjoying my sojourn in the north of England.”
“That’s good. Um...well…” Greg paused, his gaze never wavering from Mycroft. “Seeing as how I’m here, I thought to spend a few days. No sense in rushing back. I was rather hoping for somewhere to stay the night.” He looked around. “Might have to seek out a guest house though…”
“Nonsense, Inspector. I won’t hear of it. You are quite welcome to stay here. I shall see if they have another room.”
“I think this is a little over my budget, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, please, do not fret yourself over that. I think you will find that my budget can stretch to a night or two, the least I can do to repay your endeavours to assuage Sherlock’s fears.” Mycroft turned business-like and guided Greg back to the booking-in desk. He enquired about another room and made the arrangements, waiting patiently as the receptionist passed Greg a card to sign in. Finally she handed a new key card over to Greg and Mycroft peered at the room number. “Along the corridor from mine it would seem,” he said.
“I felt sure it would be full, a posh place like this so close to Christmas.”
“Space is to be had, never fear, despite the time of year and the festive markets. So...you have a few days to spare?”
“Yeah, they owe me more than a few lieu days to be honest, never mind holiday. Decided to take a few while it was quiet.”
“Shrewd of you. So, no vicious murders, no serious crimes?”
“Nope, not at present. Well, not for me anyway. Can’t speak for the other teams, because there’s always something going on, but my life is currently quiet. So, how about you? No pressing matters of state for your minor government position?”
“None whatever, I find myself at a loose end. I was exploring the city at my leisure, if you would care to join me?”
“What, today?”
“Well, today is rather more than half over, but the city has late night shopping, so I wonder, we could still go out for a walk, if you wish?”
“Sounds good. What we doing about food? I didn’t get chance for lunch.”
“Well, would you care to go to dinner with me later?”
“That sounds...great, actually,” Greg said, smile widening. “I’d be happy to.”
“Good. So, shall we get you settled?”
“Oh, wow, Mycroft, this is incredible. It must be costing an arm and a leg…”
“The least I can do, honestly. Please think nothing of it.”
“But this is…beautiful.” The suite, for that is what it was with its separate living space and bedroom area and enormous bathroom, was spacious, but cosy, and plushly decorated in reds and gold. Greg dumped his bag, feeling a bit out of place, and went to explore. There was a complementary robe and slippers in the bedroom, posh toiletries in the bathroom, with a freestanding bath in the middle of the room. “Jesus, this is…”
“I was wondering, while you’re here, if you would perhaps care to see a show? Maybe we could catch a performance of something tomorrow evening perhaps? I was perusing the events guides, and find there are one or two promising shows. I always find these things are better shared. My treat?”
“As long as it isn’t a pantomime,” Greg replied, grimacing slightly as he returned to the living area.
“Done. I cannot abide the things myself.”
“Good. In that case, I accept, but let me buy the drinks, okay?”
“Very well. So, I shall leave you to settle in for a while, and what say we meet in the lobby in half an hour?” Mycroft was relatively confident that he had managed to keep Lestrade carefully at arms length, putting on a genial performance, an affable front, hiding his real feelings under his usual veneer of cordiality. Suddenly, Lestrade moved to block Mycroft’s escape route, putting his body between the door and the man who now stood there looking a bit bewildered.
“Mycroft, can we please talk?”
Here it comes, Mycroft thought.
Greg closed the door carefully on the outside world, on prying ears and eyes, and faced the man he had come to help. Deciding he couldn’t approach this in a meek and mild way, he hardened his voice, lowered it significantly, and faced Mycroft off with a frown drawing his brows together.
“Mycroft, sit down, please. I need to ask you some questions before we go any further.” Greg watched the slightly startled look in the depths of the blue eyes and waited. Mycroft’s head lifted, chin jutting stubbornly forward, looking down his aristocratic nose at the lowly copper in front of him.
“Inspector, I hardly think this is appropriate. I…”
“Sit down, Mycroft.” Greg kept his voice calm, but firm. “You and I need to clear the air. Come on, gimme a break here. I need answers and all you’ve so far given me is pleasantries, and genial government bullshit. It’s a whitewash to be honest. Your contented demeanour doesn’t fool me. Credit me with a little understanding. I thought I was maybe worth more than that.”
“Well, maybe you thought wrongly. Please stop treating me like one of your suspects, Gregory. ”
“Ech, d’you have to call me that? That was a low blow…”
“Why? You do not like Gregory?”
“My full name sucks. You sound like my mother.”
“I doubt my voice is the correct timbre to be your matriarch, Gregory. Although your name does have a certain ring to it when used properly. I do not doubt the good lady used it to the best of her ability to coerce you into obedience.”
“Oh, yeah, she really did. Now, sit, stop trying to change the subject, and do not try my patience any longer.”
Mycroft decided that discretion was the better part of valour and sat. Let’s get this over with, he thought. He had known it would be coming sooner or later, and Lestrade had obviously decided no to beat about the bush. Besides, some small part of him actually liked this version of Lestrade. He was commanding, insistent, but with the gravitas of middle age, honest sincerity and integrity. He carried his heart on his sleeve, but he really did care. Mycroft was left a little stunned, that someone would actually care about him sufficiently to face off like this. Then he sobered. Lestrade obviously cared more about Sherlock, and this was the Inspector’s attempt to make sure Sherlock’s brother was alright, so he could return to London having discharged his duty and reassure the consulting detective that he still had a brother. However, this version of Lestrade would not be fobbed off with denials.
“So what can I say, Inspector?” Mycroft asked a little tiredly. “What do you want to hear? Admissions of failure on my part? PTSD? Exhaustion? I admit I am not at my best but my superiors have supplied me with help, and I am...taking a holiday, as you can see. What more can I say?”
Lestrade sighed. “Okay, that’s good, but just be honest with me. How are you, truthfully? Sherlock won’t let me off without a grilling, and he’ll see through any attempt I make to gloss over the truth. Give me something I can convince him with, yeah?”
“As I said, truthfully, I am doing well enough. Although, to be honest, not wonderfully well, as I suppose is only to be expected. I am progressing as my doctors think I should be. I am coming along nicely, as they are wont to say. There is work to do yet, but I am confident that I will prove up to the task. I am not about to jump under a train, or off a bridge for that matter.”
“I think that’s the most honest you’ve ever been with me.”
“Yes, well, I dare say you deserve my honesty after all this time. You have unswervingly done your best for my brother, and you can return to London in the sure and certain knowledge that you have done your duty.”
“Sherlock asked me to make sure you were looked after, specifically because he said you’re not as strong as you think you are.” Greg huffed a sigh. “I dare say I am inclined to agree with the daft git. You put on this front, Mycroft,” Greg said, walking toward him. “A suit of armour against the woes of the world, but underneath, you’re human.” Greg stopped in front of the man and tapped a finger gently over the front of his waistcoat above his heart. “That,” he said, gently, “is fragile. We’re a dichotomy, us humans, as you well know. We are immensely strong, we face down tragedy and we come through it, and yet we can also break at the slightest pressure. Human beings are not standard creatures, Mycroft. What will hardly touch one will kill another. How you deal with tragedy, and loss, and pain, it’s the same. Some of us will weather it, some of us will try to jump off a bridge.”
Mycroft looked at him intently, as if seeing the inspector for the first time.
“I forget you are a student of life, Gregory.”
“Needs must, Mycroft. Can’t be a copper and not understand human nature.”
“Detective Inspector, you are very much an honourable person…”
“Bullshit, Mycroft,” Greg retorted. “I do what’s correct; I smile, I kiss ass, whatever it takes. I try to be the person I am needed to be, alongside the one who can do the damn job. What you see is my armour, Mycroft, my battlefront, my shield. You don’t see me, not the real honest-to-goodness me. I’m sometimes so far from honourable that I couldn’t reach it in a bloody taxi. I’m capable of doing the same things as you to get the result I need; I can manipulate, threaten, coerce. Is that honourable?”
“Believe me, Gregory, I have no trouble with that concept. Although I have never doubted that whatever you do, you do so in the name of law, of justice. Quite simply, if I had thought for a moment that you had any nefarious concerns I would not have allowed your association with my brother to continue. However, I cannot admit to such high ideals.”
“Bollocks. I do my best to get to the truth, but sometimes I have to employ shitty means to get there.”
“Maybe we have more in common than I thought.”
“Yeah, well, I try to make sure life doesn’t damage me too much in the process, but sometimes, you have to realise you can’t get through without help, and in my considered opinion, at this time in your life, you need that help, Mycroft.”
Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. “It will avail you nought to press and persuade me, you know. I so hate to be coerced.”
“Not coercing. Not pressing or persuading. You’ll note I’m asking nicely, and I am concerned. However, you’ve assured me you have access to therapy, and that you’re being monitored. Well then, who am I to challenge that? I am not a doctor. However, I would like to extend the hand of friendship. If you need an ear, anytime, whatever time of night or day, then please, would you consider calling me?”
“I fear I am a little lacking in trust where confidences are concerned, Gregory. Official secrets and all that.”
“Not the only one, Mycroft. Not the only one. Although I can’t say my reasons are down to national security, I can still appreciate the sensitive nature of the content, as it were. However, I know it helps to have backup, some understanding non-judgemental backup, from someone who knows how hard the work is, how difficult the decisions can be to make.” Greg stood aside and allowed Mycroft to leave if he wished. “Just remember that, that’s all I ask. Now,” he added, deciding to deflect, to drop the heavyweight questioning, “where would you suggest for dinner?”
“I’m taking us to Hudson’s,” Mycroft said decisively.
“Eh?”
“Hudson’s.” Mycroft chuckled. “No relation to the redoubtable lady I assure you. It’s the hotel’s own restaurant. Fine dining, or the nearest we can get to it up here.”
“You said that like you don’t expect anywhere in the north of England to have any idea what fine dining is, you know? Don’t let the locals hear you…”
“Or what, Gregory? Might they be expected to revolt?” Mycroft looked down his long nose at Greg and a smile spread across Greg’s face.
“Who knows, Mycroft. Apart from watching Man U against Arsenal, and that can be a bloodbath sometimes, my knowledge of the north stops at the Watford Gap. Wouldn’t underestimate them though. I had a mate worked with Greater Manchester Police, and the tails he could tell… rivalled a few things our lot could come up with, believe me.”
“I’m sure,” Mycroft murmured, noncommittally. “So, there is some of the afternoon left. Should we head into town? I could show you some of the sights before we return for dinner.”
“There are sights?”
“Oh, yes, Gregory. Your knowledge of the north might be lacking somewhat, but believe me, there are sights to be seen. As long as you like history, that is.”
“History’s okay. Never got on with all the dates and the kings and queens when I was at school though.”
“History is about far more than Kings and battles, Gregory. Virtually all our nation’s rich history can be seen in this city.”
“Yeah? Like from when? Cavemen?”
Mycroft fixed him with a disbelieving look and shook his head. “To my knowledge, there are no mesolithic dwellings around here.” He gave a heartfelt sigh. “I can see your education is sorely lacking. I will consider it my sworn duty to educate you on the finer points of British History, as well as the history of this city. However, for now there is late night shopping, if that floats your boat, as it were. The Christmas markets are open and it all looks very festive…” Mycroft paused. Gregory’s expression had flickered with...what? “Do you not find that to your liking?”
“Er...no, um, I mean, it’s alright but...I’m not really into window shopping. Usually just go out if I need something…”
“Understandable, but here’s the thing, Gregory. If you are expecting me to confide in you, then I expect a reciprocal agreement. Be honest with me in return.”
“Wasn’t aware that I hadn’t been.”
“What is it about Christmas that you find...uncomfortable?”
“I don’t find Christmas uncomfortable.”
“Perhaps not the holiday itself, but you are being evasive. Something is distasteful to you concerning this time of year.”
Greg sighed. Bloody Holmeses with their lightning observations and even faster deductions, and Mycroft was smarter than his brother. Cornered… “So you think I find Christmas uncomfortable, do you? Well, you asked for this. Christmas to me is a succession of parties nobody wants to go to, awkward silences, bad food, and over-priced gifts that you feel obligated to buy because the wife just has to have something better than all the other women at work. To top it off, this one I’m facing alone as well.”
“I face every Christmas alone,” Mycroft murmured. “That or face hours of my parents being intensely...festive.”
“Yeah? Well, I hate almost every Christmas I’ve ever had since I got married, apart from maybe the first two.” Greg’s shoulders slumped. “You know what? I’m facing Christmas alone this year too, and I intend to go home, with a very good bottle of single malt, some strong coffee and maybe a good box of Turkish Delight and between bouts of enjoying the drink and the sweets, and watching Die Hard or The Sound of Music on the tele, I am going to sleep, and sleep well, because I won’t have to get up early or make nice or sweat over cooking a full turkey dinner, or anything else festive!”
“That actually sounds like a good idea,” Mycroft allowed approval to colour his voice. “I do mean that sincerely, Gregory. As a plan to weather the day, it has merit.”
“Yeah, well, you can run to your mummy and daddy if you get lonely.”
“Not this year. I am, I regret to say, persona non grata there.”
“What?”
“After...my sister… the deception I inflicted on them, my parents are understandably less than happy with my presence in their lives.”
“Seriously? None of that was your fault.”
“Alas, there, Gregory, you are wrong.”
“You can’t be held to blame for her psychotic behaviour.”
“No, but they blame me for not informing them she was still alive.”
“Didn’t your uncle Rudy start that one?”
“But I continued it, and they say I should have told them. What could I do? It’s not a simple matter?”
Greg stared at him. “Yes, well, you can move on, Mycroft. Their issues are not yours. Since when did you need them, anyway? You’ve forged your own life now.”
“Yes, I have, haven’t I?”
“Mycroft?”
“Yes, Gregory?”
“Look, your parents are still your parents. They’ll come round, just give them time. Time to work off their anger, time to think. And if they don’t, then…” Greg shrugged. “You still have other family, other friends. You have support from other directions, don’t you?”
Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again, his gaze focusing on the far wall. “I am alone, Gregory. Sherlock doesn’t need me any more. He has John and little Rosie. I have my work colleagues, and Alicia, who wants to be more than merely a colleague…”
“Alicia, eh? Just to be clear, are we talking about that PA of yours who changes her name every week, or someone else?”
“Someone else. Anthea is my PA, and she is my rock, but we are not friends, we are colleagues.”
“So, should I be jealous?”
“Jealous? Why would you be?”
“Joke, Mycroft. You’ve got another friend aside from me?”
“Friend? Well…” Was she? Friends were usually dangerous. Demanding, needy, not to mention contrary and obstinate and wanting you to consider their feelings all the time… Wait. Mycroft paused, running the words back through his head. Gregory counts himself as my friend? “You consider yourself my friend?”
“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. I mean, we’ve met numerous occasions concerning your brother, you’ve aided my investigations occasionally, so...yes, I do. It’s okay, though. I don’t expect you to be mine in return. You’re busy, I understand. National Security and all of that.”
“Inspector, I thought the whole concept of friendship was reciprocal in nature.”
“Well, no, not always. I mean, friendship is usually a mutually fulfilling agreement but you can extend the hand of friendship without it being returned. It’s just a bit frustrating sometimes, but doesn’t stop you. Sometimes the other person is incapable of returning it, and sometimes has no idea that you are a friend, or doesn’t understand what it means. Shouldn’t stop you considering yourself a person’s friend, in spite of all of that. I’ve done it with Sherlock for nigh on a decade.”
Mycroft paused. That was a concept he had never considered. That Gregory Lestrade should consider himself his friend, even though Mycroft had no idea that the friendship was in place. Just like the man had no idea what Mycroft actually felt he owed him.
“Just seemed like sometime you needed a friend, Mycroft. I know it sounds daft, because what’s the use of a friend if you don’t know they exist?”
“I know now.”
Greg stared at him. His voice was soft as he replied. “Yes, you do.” He shrugged, smiled and reached for his coat. “Right then,” he rubbed his hands together. Enough of the heavy stuff for now. “You mentioned something about improving my education and I actually do have some presents to buy, so why don’t we head out?”
“Capital idea,” Mycroft agreed. “Let me get my coat and we shall begin your education.”
“I’ll need a post office as well. I need to send something off to Canada, although I think I might have missed the posting date.”
“Canada?”
“Yeah, my sister lives out there. Married an engineer, went out there…” Greg did a rapid calculation in his head, “...twelve years ago. She has twins, Tom and Ruby. I always buy something for them, but this year they’ll just have to wait until after Christmas. I’m the uncle they’ve never known, but I never forget them.” Greg shrugged on his overcoat and followed Mycroft out of the room.
“So you’ve never been out there?” Mycroft enquired. “How old are they now?”
“Fourteen. Becca is ten years younger than me. I met them when they were tiny before they emigrated, but they don’t remember that. We can skype now, though, so we do get to see each other more often, but the time difference is a killer. They’re getting up as I’m going to bed.”
“Quite. I am very often required to be up in the wee hours to converse with colleagues in different time zones. I often prefer to travel directly to see them, and converse in the same time zone, rather than lose sleep doing so by staying here. I can weather it, but it rankles.”
Mycroft checked his watch. Time was heading into early evening. “Let us go for a brief walk into the center of town, I can point out the salient features of this city, then we can come back for dinner. I shall make the reservations before we leave. We can explore more tomorrow.”
“Okay then.”
“Gregory…”
“What?”
Mycroft paused. Too soon. “Nothing, it can wait. Why don’t I meet you in the lobby in ten minutes?” he said, and strode off. Greg watched him go.
“Bloody Holmeses,” he muttered, exasperated, and headed to the lifts.
They wandered the roads and lanes of the old medieval part of the town in the early dark, admiring the festive street decorations, the lights and the shop windows with their seasonal displays. They sipped mulled wine and ate roast chestnuts and Greg wondered when his life had turned into a modern take on a Dickens novel. Someone had deposited large ice sculptures in the middle of the city, every conceivable shape from a dragon to a Roman soldier. There was a huge faceted diamond in front of a jewellers with a ring trapped in the center, crystal clear and glittering with carefully directed lights. There was a pair of crossed keys, a dog with a flying helmet on its head, a moon and stars and a pig with wings. There was even a swan, with an elegant neck and a haughty expression that reminded Greg a little of Mycroft. Further along the road stood a large pair of angel wings.
“Stand right there,” Mycroft said, snapping a photo of Greg with the angel’s wings behind him. “After all, Gregory, would you not agree that you are doing your best to be my guardian angel?” Greg found he had nothing to say to that.
He watched Mycroft wander along the streets as though next week would do, relaxed for the first time since Greg had known him. He had never seen this version of Mycroft before. He was dressed in tweeds, for one thing; cord trousers and comfortable brogues, cashmere scarf snugged around his long neck, elegant long fingered hands encased in soft leather gloves… Greg gave himself pause there. Why am I more sensitive to Mycroft’s physical features all of a sudden? He watched Mycroft pause to gaze in the window of a small jewellers, eyes lit with curious interest. That profile… Greg smiled. Hawk nosed and haughty, he would recognise it anywhere, and he allowed himself a fond smile. Suddenly, from nowhere, came the thought that he might have lost all three of them, John, Mycroft and Sherlock, to the whims of their mad little sister…
Greg stopped dead, breath knocked from him, realisation kicking in what his world could have been like right now, not able to see any of them ever again, never able to speak to them…
What they actually meant to him slammed home…
Mary was really gone, and he missed her. Even though he hadn’t really known her, he had still seen her gunned down in front of him, her little girl motherless, her husband devastated…
It was all too real to him that Mycroft, Sherlock and John could be lying cold and lifeless in some morgue somewhere, right now. The enormity of it all sank in. His eyes stung with tears. Heart racing, he started to shake uncontrollably. He struggled to breathe...
“Gregory!”
He blinked, shocked and speechless. Mycroft was standing in front of him, inches away, one hand gripping his arm firmly but gently, steadying him, grounding him. “Gregory, whatever is the matter? Do I need to call an ambulance? You look grey. You’re shaking. Talk to me.”
“I…” he coughed, throat dry, unable to get his breath.
“Here, drink.” It wasn’t a request. A hip flask was pressed into his hand and his hand was lifted, helping him through the motions. The flavour of very good brandy burst on his tongue and he choked again but Mycroft offered the flask once more and this time he drank a good mouthful of the restorative spirit. It warmed him as it slid down his throat, clearing his head a little, comforting him. An strong arm slid around his shoulders, holding him steady.
“Sorry,” he rasped. “I...got to thinking…”
“That can be dangerous,” Mycroft quipped. “Come on, you need a warm drink, in a quiet place.” Mycroft steered them into a pub, ordered two teas and asked if they had a quiet room, murmuring something about his partner having received upsetting news. The landlord looked concerned, and showed them into the deserted snug behind the bar. Greg found himself pressed to a seat, Mycroft sitting close beside him. “Now then, how do you feel now? Talk to me, Gregory. What on earth just occurred?”
“You’re the bloody Holmes, you work it out…”
Mycroft was momentarily silenced by the sharp response, but he frowned, eyes flicking over Greg as he sat there, huddled somewhat miserably into his coat and scarf. There was a hum of understanding, and then the door opened, the landlord bringing their tea. Mycroft thanked him, and the man left, closing the door behind him. “You’re stressed, sweating, upset, finding difficulty breathing, but I do not think you are in pain. Your expression would say not.” Cool fingers grasped his wrist and pressed over the pulse point. “Your heart is neither tachycardic nor is it fibrillating, but your pulse is faster than normal. Do you feel sick?”
“A bit...look, I’m not...not ill...”
“Then what, Gregory? Your reaction was rather alarming. A panic attack…?”
“I was...thinking…” Greg’s head fell back against the seat and he stared at the ceiling. Oh, God, this was mortifying. Here goes. Confession time… “I was watching you… just glanced your way… and I thought...I realised, I guess… I may well have been facing this Christmas alone.”
“I understood that was your situation already.”
“No, Mycroft.” Greg took a shaky breath. “Utterly and completely alone. Mary’s dead, but you could have been too… You, John, Sherlock, all three of you. Twice over, if that woman had decided to wave that bloody gun around after Mary, and I…” He stopped, taking more deep breaths to steady himself. Mycroft reached for the tea and held it out. Greg took it, hands rattling the cup on the saucer slightly. It slopped a little when he took a sip.
“Caring, as I am wont to remind people, is not an advantage,” Mycroft murmured, but his voice was devoid of cynicism.
“No, it bloody isn’t,” Greg agreed, “but I still do. Weak though that might make me, I am human, Mycroft, and I care, simple as that. I have to, otherwise I would be shit at my job, and I am not shit at this job. I cannot be shit at my job, I have nothing else left. I need that or I am fucking nothing, you understand me?” Greg was aware his voice had risen alarmingly but Mycroft was unphased.
“I understand perfectly, Gregory.”
“But I do care; for you, for him, for John, for Mary, for Rosie, for Molly, for Mrs Hudson. Damn it, someone has to. The world is not fair, Mycroft. It is no respecter of age or privilege or rank or religion. It throws shit at the nicest people while the scumbags seem to get off scot free. Good people die, people who are just doing their jobs, doing their thing, and fairness plays no part in it. Truth is, none of us know when we will go, and it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we behave fairly while we’re here, that we care enough to do so, that we make this place worth living in, because if we don’t then what’s the bloody point?” Greg gulped his tea. “Look, I see the result of people not caring every damn day. I see the result of people being hateful to each other, and I see the widespread grief it causes. Letting that happen is just...NOT acceptable. I cannot live in a world like that, where nobody cares, where we just exploit each other. If we stopped caring, crime would be left to run rife, and life would be fucking miserable. If you cannot care, then fine, you just carry on, but I can’t do that. I’ve seen the worst of people, but I’ve also seen the best. I’ve not lost my faith in humanity yet, even if that faith gets tested quite a bit at times.”
“Yet you keep going, Gregory.”
“Yeah, I do, because I try to be a good person, no matter how difficult that gets sometimes. Don’t be a dick, that’s my motto. It’s quite a simple rule to live by.”
Mycroft chuckled. “But why would you bother? You can’t change fate.”
Greg smiled thoughtfully. “You can’t change fate, Mycroft, but you can even the odds a bit. Never put off till tomorrow what you can say today. Tell people you love them now, rather than in their eulogy. I just realised what my world might have been if your bloody sister had succeeded, and you know what? Facing a world without you and Sherlock and John in it…” Greg bit down on his wayward emotions. He felt off balance and so far out of his comfort zone he couldn’t even see the boundaries of it any more. “It isn’t a world I would want to continue living in, that’s what,” he admitted, voice husky with the emotion of it. “The worst bit is, I can’t even blame her. I have no right to blame someone for being born too clever for her own good.”
“And that, my dear detective inspector, is the tragedy of it.” The two men regarded each other warily.
“Thank you,” Greg said, softly. “I mean… thanks for...well, caring.” He chuckled. “Irony there, possibly.”
Mycroft actually smiled. “I dare say you’re right. Now, if I may add a little definition to my previous statement, I maintain that caring will never be an advantage. It can intrude upon decision making, and the decisions I have to make are often vital. If I let caring intrude then I would, to use your parlance, be shit at my job, and I, too, am not shit at my job. I cannot be shit at my job. I too have nothing else left. However, I have always cared, most especially when it came to my baby brother. I am capable of caring very deeply but… I am terrible at showing it, or demonstrating it. Often my actions are misconstrued by those I seek to help. I flounder in my ignorance sometimes.” Mycroft paused and looked Greg over. “You seem somewhat restored at any rate.”
“I am, thanks. I am really sorry…” Embarrassment kicked in and Greg stared at the floor.
“Think nothing of it. I am glad I was around to help.” A hand landed on his shoulder. “It was not under your control. Panic attacks happen to the strongest of us.”
“Might not have happened if I hadn’t been so damned insistent on following you up here. I really did not want to intrude, Myc. I…”
“I am glad you did.”
A small silence followed that admission. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“I never say anything I don’t mean...well, not often, and then only in predetermined situations where the outcome is of national importance.” Mycroft was gratified at Greg’s chuckle.
“I must be favoured,” he said.
“More than you know,” Mycroft murmured. He sipped his cooling tea and shuddered. “Come on, if you are feeling more like yourself, I suggest we head on back and get dinner.” He checked his watch. “We have about an hour and a half, so I suggest we head back to refresh ourselves. You need to eat, Gregory. Then I suggest you get some rest. A shock like that can be detrimental unless you take measures to mitigate the effects.”
“How would I do that?”
“Relaxation. The hotel has a spa. I thought to partake of its amenities tomorrow. They have hot tubs, massage, facials, an excellent barber, plenty of indulgent therapies to rejuvenate you. I suggest we glance over their menu tonight, and book some time there tomorrow. They have a pool too. Do you swim?”
“Yeah, but silly me, I didn’t think to bring swimming gear with me.”
“Then let us go find you some before we return there.”
“It’s after hours, Mycroft. The shops are shutting, surely.”
“Late night shopping for Christmas, Gregory. Come on, I know a little outfitters might be able to accommodate us. We shall pass it on the way back.” He stood, and offered a hand to help Greg stand. “Slowly,” he warned. “You’ve had a shock, so take things steadily.” Once outside, Mycroft offered his arm. Greg locked arms with him and had to admit to being grateful for the support as they walked slowly through the darkness. He had no idea what it might mean, but he was willing to shelve thoughts of such a nature until after dinner. It felt good, the two of them together. Too good, and Greg revelled in it, even if it wasn’t going to last, he could enjoy it while it did.
“This is too much, Mycroft,” Greg complained weakly. He was holding three bags from the outfitters. One had swimming shorts in, shorts that frankly left little to the imagination. He also had a suit bag with a new jacket, a pair of trousers, and a new shirt in it. “This is a whole new outfit…”
“Consider it a Christmas present then, a thank you, if you will. You cared enough to do what Sherlock asked of you, and you cared enough to find out if I was alright, and you cared enough to offer your help. This is merely a thank you. Consider it recompense for having to deal with all of us over the last few years.”
“Thank you, Mycroft. I… it wasn’t necessary, you know, and you’re already paying for my room...”
“Hush, Gregory. You are very like Anthea you know? Loyal, trustworthy, professional, essential, but long suffering, modest and undemanding to a fault.” Mycroft paused, assessing his guest for a moment. “How would you feel about staying for Christmas, possibly even the New Year?”
“What? Where? Here?”
“Certainly.”
“That’s more than a week, Mycroft. I couldn’t take that much time off work.”
“You could if I had Anthea second you to my department for the duration. My work is regrettably covered by official secrets, so no one would have any right to know what you were doing. If pressed I can assure your Chief Super that you are gaining valuable security experience.”
“That’s a bit…well, dodgy, even for you.”
“Not a bit. We have vital work to do up here, assessing the likelihood of rebellion in the north.” Greg laughed. “You can never be too careful, Gregory. Any moment the powderkeg might be lit, and York is the birthplace of Guy Fawkes, after all. All throughout English history, the men of the North have never taken government from London very well.”
“You’re kidding me,” Greg said.
“Not at all. There was rebellion in 1069, after the conquest, which resulted in the Harrying of the North. Many were executed, crops burned, whole villages put to the torch, and thousands more died later of starvation. The Pilgrimage of Grace arose in 1536, followed by the Rising of the North in 1539, and the Gunpowder Plot in 1605… The evidence is damning.”
“You are so full of bullshit, Mycroft Holmes.”
“Historical fact, Gregory, not bullshit, but it made you smile.”
Greg tried to assimilate that bit of information. “Hm, the people should not be afraid of the government, the government should be afraid of the people…”
“That was V for Vendetta, not Guy Fawkes, Gregory.”
“Good film though, and you cannot deny, it had its roots in the same story.”
Mycroft sighed, smiled and guided his companion back to the hotel.
Christmas Eve began early, with Mycroft knocking on his door at eight. Greg rolled over and lay there for a moment, luxuriating in the softness of the bed, and memories of a good dinner with plenty of conversation and a little too much wine. “Yes?” he called, and heard Mycroft’s muffled voice through the door.
“Breakfast finishes downstairs in an hour, Gregory. I have arranged appointments for us in the Spa at ten. How are you this morning?”
There was a short pause, during which Mycroft heard muffled movement, and then the door opened. Greg stood there, barefoot, clad in a fleece dressing gown. “Morning, Mycroft. I am very, very well rested, thank you. Come in?”
“If you’re sure.”
“Get in here.” He stood aside, and Mycroft entered, already immaculately dressed which made Greg feel somewhat at a disadvantage.
“No ill-effects from yesterday?” Mycroft enquired. After dinner the night before, Mycroft had insisted Greg get an early night.
“I don’t think so. Look, you want to wait for me? I’ll just jump in the shower, and I can be ready in ten minutes. Make yourself a cuppa?”
“I...I’ll meet you downstairs, Gregory. I shall await you in the lounge.”
“Okay then.” Greg watched Mycroft leave as fast as was possible without appearing to run. He shook his head and walked into the ensuite, wondering at the foibles of Holmeses.
Mycroft stopped in the stairwell, breathing hard. Christ, that man has no idea, he thought. There was nothing Mycroft wanted more than to see Greg freshly showered, towel around his hips, legs and feet, and possibly chest as well, bare and on display… He took a steadying breath and continued on downstairs. This could not be allowed to continue, because his health was going to suffer…
Greg showered quickly, and took care shaving, doing his best to style his hair with a little gel, spiking it slightly. He put on the clothes Mycroft had bought for him the day before, and gave his shoes a quick polish before he gathered his wallet and key card. Greg glanced in the mirror as he went to the door and was quite surprised. The clothes looked well on him, gave him a little more style, made him look a little younger.
Downstairs, he located the elder Holmes quickly enough and Greg did not miss the appraising look Mycroft gave him as he approached. “Gregory, you look...very well…”
“Thanks. Thank you for the clothes. Look okay?”
“Of course you do. Very dapper.” Not to mention devastatingly attractive. “Breakfast?” Mycroft gestured for Greg to precede him and they went into the restaurant together.
They sat opposite each other and Mycroft regarded Greg contemplatively across the table. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah? What about?”
“Well, it’s Christmas Eve, Gregory. Would you perhaps like to go to Midnight Mass at the Minster tonight?”
“That would be good, yeah. When is it?”
Greg watched Mycroft blink slowly. “Midnight, Gregory,” Mycroft intoned with exaggerated patience.
Greg laughed. “God, Myc, your face. I was joking.”
“Rogue,” Mycroft complained, “through and through. There is no redeeming you.”
“Admit it, you wouldn’t want me any other way.”
Mycroft bit back his reply. He had been about to say something that without a doubt would have been taken the wrong way. Mycroft was sure he could think of many and various ways he wanted Gregory Lestrade, and most were unprintable. He covered by suggesting they didn’t eat too heavily.
“Okay, but why?”
“Our spa treatment.”
“What did you book?”
“Virtually everything; sauna, massage, facial and manicure. Does that meet with your approval? And a swim as well?”
“Very nice. You really do know how to relax, I’ll give you that.”
“Nothing wrong in a little pampering. I told my therapist I would do my best to chill out.”
“Your words or hers?”
“Not my words, Gregory. My therapist is a man who looks as though he has yet to sit his A levels and he uses words that have yet to enter the Oxford English Dictionary. However, somehow he has achieved clearance to psychoanalyze operatives from MI5, MI6 and the SAS, not to mention the Government, the police and the rest of the emergency services. Frankly I have no idea how he managed it, but he seems to know what he is talking about.”
“Well, you know what they say about policemen looking younger the older you get.”
“As one gets older, Gregory, how old one feels and how old one actually is are not the same thing. After the age of thirty we apparently begin to feel younger than we are, but this is at odds with what we see in the mirror. So naturally people around us begin to look younger. It’s a widespread phenomenon and not unusual. That’s why pensioners feel young at heart and teenagers feel more mature than their years.”
“Trust you to have the answer. You’re amazing, Mycroft.”
Mycroft chewed his toast and had no answer for that.
At the poolside, Mycroft began to wonder if this had been a very bad idea. Greg Lestrade in swimwear was a thing of beauty. The man was strong, broad shoulders, powerful thighs, trim waist even in middle age. He kept himself fit, despite a certain softness to that trim waist. Mycroft was lost for words.
“Hey, am I doing this all by myself here?” Greg was treading water, waiting for him. He struck out back to Mycroft’s side of the baths and pulled himself up. “Anything wrong?”
“No...I...no, nothing.” Mycroft lowered himself into the water to find it tolerably warm, refreshing even. Greg grinned, then threw himself back in with an almighty splash. He surfaced, gasping but happy, clearly in his element.
“Race?” he suggested.
“Seriously?” Mycroft replied. “I regret that I am probably not as fit as I should be....”
“No problem. I’ll keep an eye on you.” With that, Greg pushed off, strong strokes taking him easily to the end of the baths. Mycroft joined him, a little slower, but enjoying the water. “To the end and back? Last one buys lunch…”
“Very well…” but Greg was gone, and Mycroft plunged after him without another thought.
It was a close swum race. For all Greg’s speed and strength, Mycroft had more stamina, and they were almost together on the final approach. Mycroft lost, but only by a hand’s length.
“Wow, that was...amazing,” Greg said, wiping excess water from his hair. “You’re fantastic...a fantastic swimmer, Myc.” He covered his little slip but in truth the man only kept on amazing him with his abilities.
“One of my favourite ways to lose weight,” Mycroft admitted. “You are obviously very fit. Do you swim regularly?”
“Yeah, if I’ve time. More fun with two though.” The next moment, Greg had dived, disappearing under the water like a seal. Strong arms wrapped around his waist and Mycroft was hauled under, spluttering. Greg darted off, breaking the water again, laughter ringing. Indignant, Mycroft swum after him, but Greg changed direction. Anticipating where he would be, Mycroft plunged underneath him and caught him around the middle, warm flesh under his fingers a sharp contrast to the colder water. This time, it was Greg’s turn to come up spluttering. Mycroft grinned, carefree and a little wild, his hair plastered to his skull, his eyes shining. He had never in all his born days been this uninhibited. Mr Spence was definitely enjoying his holiday. Greg lunged for him again and they grappled, limbs tangling and water churning around them. With a deep breath, Mycroft took Greg under again, flailing and grabbing, each trying to get the upper hand. They broke away, and both came up spluttering and laughing, breathless. When they recovered, they were mere inches away from each other.
There was a heavy pause, their eyes locked on each other. Neither man said a word, but their thoughts were whirling.
That was indescribable…
So much fun….
If only….
It won’t work….
But I want it to work….
I don’t know how to make this work….
What if….
This is not a rehearsal….
I’m sorry….I can’t….
Regretfully, Mycroft pulled away, and swam to the side. “We’ll be late for our appointment,” he said airily, as if nothing had happened. He did not see Greg’s disappointed look as he followed.
They enjoyed their time in the spa, and it left Greg feeling rejuvenated and pampered. The cloud over his day however was his seeming inability to crack Mycroft’s shell of reserve. There were glimpses, like in the pool, where caution was thrown to the wind, and when Mycroft had obviously cared for him the day before, a memory that embarrassed as much as it warmed him. There was incontrovertible evidence that Mycroft Holmes knew how to let his hair down if he wanted, knew how to care, but it never seemed to last.
The rest of the day passed quickly, and last minute visits to the shops saw them both returning for dinner laden with parcels and bags. Greg had found presents for his neice and nephew, but posting them would have to wait. He had also found a few presents for Mycroft, which had not been an easy feat, buying them without him noticing. He was determined to give Mycroft a good Christmas, despite the lack of family. What to give the man who had everything? Greg was pleased with himself that he had found some inspiration at least.
They went to the Cathedral in the afternoon, to hear the Nine Lessons and Carols. Greg counted himself a religious man, despite not being a regular church goer. He never had time, and his sundays were hit and miss, but he was not beyond wishing “may God rest his soul” or “God help me” and believing it. The nine lessons were traditional and it had been too long since he had experienced a service. Inside the cathedral there was a gigantic advent crown festooned with greenery and hanging in the air at the base of the central tower, behind the altar. A proper crib scene with large wooden figures sat beneath the ‘Five Sisters’ window, five thin stained-glass window panels in the North transept, the size of a football field. Greg could not help staring. It was a beautiful place.
He was surprised when he heard Mycroft join in with the singing. The man had a nice voice, a light tenor, but with depth and timbre of the seasoned singer. Greg was conscious of his own slightly rough baritone, untrained much beyond singing in the shower. He could hold a tune, he wasn’t tone deaf, and he enjoyed singing, he was simply aware of the rough edges. Nobody noticed though, least of all Mycroft. Greg enjoyed it, and he left the church feeling much more Christmassy. So what if Mycroft didn’t open up to him. The man didn’t need Greg hounding him to show his emotions.
“So, midnight mass then?” he said.
“Eleven thirty, apparently. I enquired before we left. Are you not wanting to go?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I can go alone…”
“Mycroft, it’s fine. I want to go. Too long since I went to midnight mass.”
“You believe.”
“In something, yeah. Not sure what, if you’re asking. I don’t go to church regularly but I think I believe in God, yeah. Don’t you?”
“I tend not to put too much faith in a higher power unless it is myself.”
Greg chuckled. “Typical,” he said, grinning. “You Holmeses, you think you’re omnipotent.”
Mycroft shot him a Look. “It isn’t that I don’t believe, I just….I remain skeptical even although I have gained some comfort from the church before. There is something about the Midnight Mass though, something a little bit special.”
“Know what you mean. I’m not much into the mumbo jumbo, but I believe we need to help each other, be kind. Don’t be a Dick. Simple.”
It was Mycroft’s turn to chuckle. “My dear Gregory, I wish the world were that simple.”
“Damn, you mean it isn’t?”
Mycroft actually laughed at that.
They had a quiet dinner that evening and then set off to the cathedral at eleven o’clock, the frosty night sky above them clear of clouds, stars winking in the dark. There were more people about, some leaving pubs and clubs, and yet more heading to the cathedral along with Greg and Mycroft. Outside the Minster, however, Mycroft unaccountably held them both back.
“Mycroft?”
“Gregory...I am sorry. I....”
“What?”
“I am not good at this. I am not what you deserve. You deserve much better than I. I am… damaged…I do not know how to be what you seem to expect...”
“Woah, Mycroft, stop right there. Right now. I’ve got the best part of ten years on you and I do a job that’s decidedly not easy. Seen more than my share of RTIs, grisly crime scenes, mutilated bodies, incidences of violence, and been caught up in a few too. If anybody is damaged then look no further. I’ve been through some shit in my life, Myc; a crap marriage, relatives I loved dying on me, violent deaths, fights, riots… I’ve been through counselling more than once, been in hospital probably more times than Sherlock’s had hot dinners. I understand. I don’t expect anything from you, anything at all. You are who you are, nothing more nothing less. I don’t want you to be anything other than yourself.”
“That’s not what people usually want.”
“What do they usually want?”
“Too much.” Mycroft looked pensive. “I am desired for my power, Gregory. For my connections. I am not desired for myself. I have never been adored, or even loved...”
There was a brief silence, then Greg held out a gloved hand. “Let’s go, Mycroft. We’ll be late for the service.” Mycroft eyed the offered hand warily. “Come on,” Greg said with an encouraging smile. “I’m evening the odds, remember?”
“How so?”
Greg took a deep breath, and let it out gustily. “It’s massively unfair that you’ve never had anybody who adored you, or loved you, or wanted you for who you are, that’s why. Nobody deserves to be alone, Mycroft. Nobody. So come on, Mr Spence, come and enjoy the service, with me. Together.” Greg waited patiently and was rewarded by Mycroft placing a tentative hand in his. When he did, Greg grinned and tugged him toward the door of the Cathedral.
Mycroft wondered at the man beside him as the midnight mass began. Greg sang his heart out, and Mycroft found himself torn. He wanted the man standing next to him, with his gorgeous voice and beautiful body and wonderful eyes, but he wanted Greg to want him in return, and Mycroft had been disappointed too many times to place his trust in anyone just like that. He almost laughed and then remembered where he was. Trust issues. I accused John Watson of having trust issues when in truth my own are probably monumentally larger than the good doctor’s.
When the sermon began, Mycroft’s attention was not on the service, but on the man standing beside him. Greg was listening, brows drawn down in a frown of serious contemplation.
“....the usual line for the Angels in the Bible,” the Preacher was saying. Mycroft lifted his head, bringing his attention back to what was going on. “When the Angel tells Mary she is going to have a child, the message is “Don’t be afraid.” “Fear not” is the message to Joseph in his dream, the same dream that persuades him to stay faithful to a young woman who is mysteriously going to have a baby. The Christmas Story has lots of reasons to be afraid. Who would not be afraid, in a country with a King like Herod around, a king who has murdered members of his own family, and who murders the boy children in an effort to stop the threat of another king deposing him? The Christmas Story is very up to date. We know innocent children die every day, killed in war or by starvation. Even today where the Prince of Peace was born, there is no peace. Bethlehem is a troubled place, near the Palestinian border. Neither was Jesus born in a place of stability, security, prosperity and freedom. He too was born in occupied territory, in poverty, in danger, and where there was no room for him at the inn.” There was a pause, and Mycroft focused more on what was being said. The Preacher surveyed his audience with a smile. “God reveals himself to us within the troubles of the world, not after our problems are solved. Jesus Christ is born in us when we are sick or after we’ve had a row, when we’re divorced, or when we are lonely.” Mycroft flicked a glance at Greg, who at that moment just happened to be looking back at him. They shared a Look.
“Christ is with us in our trials, in unemployment and grief, in homelessness and pain” the Preacher continued. “The birth of this child in Bethlehem two thousand years ago wasn’t some simple solution to the world’s problems. He grew to be a man who had to face suffering, an unfair trial and an undeserved death himself. He knew life wasn’t fair. No, Jesus Christ doesn’t solve everything with the wave of a magic wand. But this is God coming to live alongside us, within us, to bring us hope because even when we don’t love one another he never gives up loving us. That’s the joy of the Christmas message. Fear not. May the message of the angels and the joy of the shepherds be yours and mine tonight. A very happy and joyful Christmas to you all.” The music struck up again, the organ playing “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem” and they joined in singing again.
As they left the cathedral, the bells were ringing again, their peeling loud in the early morning dark. Breath pluming in the cold air, Greg rubbed his gloved hands together and grinned a bit manically. “Well, that was….appropriate,” he commented.
“Fear not,” Mycroft intoned. “If I was a religious man, Gregory, I may be tempted to believe that someone was trying to tell me something.”
“But you’re not a religious man, you said so.”
“Actually, I believe what I said was I do not tend to put my faith in a higher power that is not myself. I do, however, gain some comfort from churches and religion, but chiefly from the peace they offer. I have needed peace in recent days, and peace has seemed to be in short supply.”
“I can agree with you there. I have a hard time finding peace sometimes.” Greg grinned suddenly. “It’s Christmas Day, Mycroft.”
“Your point being?”
“It’s Christmas Day,” Greg intoned as though talking to a child. “That is the point. I can give you your present.”
“You have bought me a present? Gregory… really, you shouldn’t have.”
“Nonsense. Of course I should. Not having you experience Christmas without presents.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small box. “Don’t worry, it’s not what it looks like.” He gave it over into Mycroft’s hand and the man opened it tentatively. Inside was a small gold tie pin, with an odd-looking green stone inset.
“It’s Moldovite,” he explained. “It’s a Moldovite tektite.”
“What on earth...?”
“Exactly. It’s not exactly from Earth. It’s a piece of glass-like crystal created with a meteorite hits the earth, when the intense heat of the impact melts and fuses surrounding minerals. You only find this stuff in a very few places in Europe. Thing is, people think there’s star stuff in there, because it’s formed when a body from space hits the earth surface. So I wanted you to have something that’s out of this world, Myc. Nearest thing I could come up with.”
Momentarily speechless, Mycroft smiled and turned the thing so it glinted in the lights. “Star stuff, eh? Gregory, this is….beyond words. It’s quite honestly the best thing I think anyone has ever given me.”
“Really?”
“Really. You considered carefully what meaning it would have for me.”
“O’course. Otherwise what’s the point of buying you things?” Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand again. “Come on, I need a hot drink and my bed.” He dragged Mycroft off toward the hotel, cathedral bells echoing in their ears.
Greg woke late, feeling fuzzy with anticipation. It was Christmas Day and he was on holiday, in York, with Mycroft… He got up, showered and dressed, and then spent some time quickly wrapping up his other presents, before heading off in search of Sherlock’s brother. It was after nine, and so he had probably missed breakfast. Mycroft was in the lounge, sitting reading yesterday’s paper, a steaming mug on the table nearby. He glanced up as Greg appeared, smiled and put the paper away.
“Good morning, Gregory. Happy Christmas.”
“Same to you. I missed breakfast?”
“You should be able to order coffee, but yes, you missed breakfast. I left you to sleep. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Nope, probably needed it.”
“You look content.”
Greg smiled. “I feel content. Look, Myc, last night…”
“Last night taught me something,” Mycroft admitted softly. Greg noted with a satisfied smile that the tie pin was in place. Greg sat down opposite him and waited for him to continue. “Do not fear,” he said. “I have been living in fear since this whole sorry mess began. I have been living in fear most of my life. Fear of failure, fear for the future, fear for my brother, fear for what would happen were my sister to escape…fear of a broken heart.”
“Fear isn’t something to be ashamed of, you know?” Greg said gently. “It’s how we face it that matters. You, Mycroft Holmes, have faced fear time and again and come through it.”
“I am sick of being in fear, Gregory. It is about time I learned to trust…”
“That you and I could learn to love again, after all this time,” Greg recited, gazing at the floor.
“Pardon?”
“Song lyrics.”
“Ah. Which song would that be from? I don’t recognise it.”
“Lawson. They’re a pop band. That you could still believe in me again, after all our trials…”
“Sounds...appropriate.”
“I thought so. I’m going for a coffee… You want anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” Mycroft watched Greg disappear toward the bar. He pulled out his phone and googled the lyrics to the song. His eyebrows rose. Should I be reading into this, he thought?
That you and I could learn to love again, after all this time, maybe that is how I knew you were the one…
When Greg returned with coffee and biscuits, Mycroft was again reading the paper as though nothing had happened.
“Christmas lunch is at two,” he said, conversationally.
“Good, but I’ll be starving by then.”
“Greg…”
“What?”
“Would you care to go for a walk?”
They stopped on the bridge over the river. Mycroft gazed at the grey water below and frowned. “Gregory…”
“Yes?”
“Why did you come, really?”
“What? You know why.”
Mycroft arched an eyebrow and waited. Eventually Greg sighed. “Because,” he said.
“Because what?”
“Because I like you, you daft git. I know how you sounded after...well, after Sherrinford. I was worried about you. I also find you attractive and I…” he sighed again. “Look, you can have fun, Myc. You are allowed to and you are capable of it. I’ve seen that. You just don’t trust yourself, you know that? It’s not about trusting the other person, is it? It’s about trusting yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You fear failure, you said so. You fear failing to be the person you think the other person wants or needs. You fear that you won’t measure up so you avoid relationships altogether. You don’t trust yourself and your own abilities.”
“Your observations are astute as always, Gregory.”
“It’s not about second guessing the other person, Myc. You need to be you, not some imagined person you think you should be. I like you as you are. I don’t need you to be something you’re not.”
“With you, I believe that.”
“You should, because it’s true.”
“I liked that song by the way.”
“What song?”
“Lawson? I googled it. When you went for coffee.”
“Yeah?”
“Is it true then?”
“Which bit?”
“The bit you left out?”
Greg smiled. “That was how I knew you were the one?”
“Yes, that bit.”
“Who knows. If you don’t give it chance, you won’t know.”
“And if I do give it a chance? What then?”
“How should I know, Mycroft? It’s a learning curve, for both of us.”
Mycroft regarded him for a while. “A leap of faith, perhaps.”
“Fear not, said he, for mighty dread, had seized their troubled minds?”
“Will you stop quoting song lyrics at me, even if they are seasonal.”
“Why? They say a lot more than I ever could.”
“Rogue, through and through. Irredeemable, impossible rogue.”
“Your rogue, if you’ll have me.”
Mycroft sighed and shook his head with an exasperated chuckle.
Christmas dinner was excellent but it was a background necessity, made better by the company. It wasn’t as if the two men had not been to dinner together before; it had grown into Mycroft’s chief way of rewarding Greg for his efforts with Sherlock. Today, though, it somehow meant more. Mycroft was his usual charming witty self but there was something else there, something underlying his actions. He was his usual erudite self, keeping the flow of conversation going as always, but the conversation was somehow more intimate. The two men had never been what they could properly call friends before, and this was the nearest they had come to a change in their relationship.
“So...dessert…”
“I think I shall pass, Gregory.”
“Oh, no, come on, Mycroft, it's Christmas. You have to do this and these are amazing. I have no clue which one to choose…”
“I am quite fine, thank you. You go ahead, Gregory. Don’t mind me.”
“You’re not fat, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you’re not fat. You should ignore Sherlock and listen to your body. You are not fat, therefore you can afford to indulge.”
“I...Really, Gregory…I…”
“Stop stuttering and order dessert, Mycroft. I think I’m going to have the chocolate pudding with ganache.”
“Gregory…” Greg looked up on hearing the quiet voice. Their eyes locked.
“Mycroft, do you not know how good looking you are?” Greg watched the man’s eyes go wide in surprise.
“Change the subject, please,” Mycroft replied with a mix of scandalized shock warring with incredulity. “I am not about to discuss this over the dinner table.”
Greg grinned. “Discuss what? There's nothing to discuss. This is not up for argument. It's the way I see you. Your slim figure, your grace, your ability to command the attention of a whole room full of people just by walking into it?” Greg leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you have any idea how hot that is?” Greg licked his lips. “I have seen you do that before, you know. Honestly I could thump your brother sometimes for giving you a poor body image. You look gorgeous and he has no right to tell you otherwise.”
“I…” Damn the man, my voice has betrayed me… Mycroft furiously tried to calm his fluttering heart and stomach and bring some sense of equilibrium back. “I had no idea you thought of me in that way, you know.”
“I really didn’t either,” Greg admitted with a grin. “Guess I’m facing my own leap of faith. It’s a long time since I fancied a bloke so much. You’re not the only one has doubts, you know? It’s a long time since I had a relationship with a man, and I… well, I might not...perform properly… Who knows? ”
“Gregory…”
“Mycroft?”
Their waiter appeared, momentarily putting Mycroft off from making further comment. “Go on, Myc,” Greg urged, but it took Mycroft a second to realise he wasn’t asking him to continue speaking. “Please order something with more calories than a rice cracker,” Greg added. “I’ll have the chocolate pudding please.” Greg grinned at him, showing those white teeth. “Besides, chocolate is an aphrodisiac, or so they say.” Mycroft choked and their waiter, God bless the man, tried not to smirk.
“Certainly, sir.” The waiter made a note and turned to Mycroft. Mycroft opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again, with an exasperated huff.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, I’ll have the… fruit sorbet.”
“May I ask which one, sir?”
For a moment Mycroft looked rebellious, then he gave in and snapped “The passion fruit.”
“Very well, sir. Thank you.” The waiter managed to take their menus in a professional manner and retreated back to the kitchens, and Greg watched him go, a thoughtful expression in place. When he turned back to Mycroft the man looked troubled.
“Sorry, Myc, I wasn’t trying to bully you, but you deserve to...well, live a little. Give to yourself now and again, hm?”
“Give to myself?” Mycroft sighed.
“Yes, you deserve to cut yourself some slack, you know. You work in a high stress occupation, you’re damn well anonymous, and you get no recognition as a result. You berate yourself too much.”
“Have you ever heard me doing so?”
“I don’t need to. I know Sherlock goads you about your weight, and you listen to him for some reason, because you deny yourself treats. You hold yourself rigidly to account for everything. You blame yourself for your sister’s actions, and your parents do as well, they’ve obviously had a detrimental effect on you too. It’s just another thing that isn’t fair, Mycroft. Don’t like to see others doing it to you, and I don’t like to see you doing it to yourself.”
“Alas, Gregory, I fear I am too entrenched in such behaviour…”
“Nonsense. Are you telling me a Holmes cannot reprogram his behaviour?”
“I…” Mycroft had no answer. Which was unusual, given he was a Holmes. “I suppose so, should I believe it to be warranted.”
“So why don’t you believe it to be in this instance? Probably because you believe what they say to be true. I just wish you wouldn’t, Mycroft, because I believe the opposite.”
“But why, Gregory? Why would you?”
“Because I am a policeman, I guess, and I am used to working out truth from lie. I work from the available evidence and go from there.”
Mycroft laughed a little mirthlessly. “Evidence? Pray tell, what evidence have you observed that would lead you to different conclusions than those that have already been presented to me?”
Mycroft was not prepared for Greg’s gentle smile. “Well, what I see is someone who is not the villain his little brother makes him out to be. I see...sorry, I observe someone who is not the slightest bit overweight, someone who actually tries to take care of his health, but could also do to stop being so hard on himself. I have witnessed Sherlock’s name calling, you know. I can also see for myself how slim you are.” Greg paused to sip his wine. He started again before Mycroft could comment. “I also see someone who regularly chooses to take the hard road, a man who makes the difficult decisions. You always have to put country before family, and keep secrets most of us would run screaming from. That’s a given, Mycroft. Nobody with a minor position in the government has priority ultra clearance, for one thing. Saw that when you asked me to go to Baskerville, and I’ve been to your office too, remember?”
“Of course I remember, Gregory.” How could I forget?
“You’re a strong man, Mycroft. You’re a force to be reckoned with when it comes to protecting Queen and Country, but protecting the Crown means that your family is safe by default, which only goes to prove you care, because your motivations come from the fact that you care about what becomes of your parents and your brother, and your sister too. Okay, so you want evidence. Let’s see then, what else?” Greg looked him over theatrically. “You move with utter grace. You’re completely aware of your body and how it moves. Your spacial awareness is acute. You have impeccable taste, and you dress both elegantly and expensively. I don’t need powers of deduction to see that. It’s there in front of me every time you show up. You’ve got charisma in spades. You have the ability to command a room or a crime scene whenever you appear, and you can crush the opposition with a carefully chosen comment.”
“You...see all that?”
“More if you’d let me. And don’t try to tell me I’m deluded or mistaken or anything. I’ve done my research. I can see with my own eyes.”
“Ah, but do your eyes deceive you, Gregory?”
“No, Mycroft, they really don’t.” Dessert arrived and Greg grinned with anticipation. “This looks amazing.”
“I admit, it does look tempting.”
“Let it tempt you, Mycroft. That’s an order.”
“Detective Inspector, are you trying to give me orders now? How very...bold of you.”
“Yeah, I know. Bravery is just another word for stupidity, isn’t it? Mycroft, I regret to inform you that you don’t scare me.”
“Now that, Gregory, I had noticed. I know you don’t scare easily and I also know to my cost that you cannot be bought. However, you are the true leader, Gregory. My people do what I ask because they fear my response if they refuse. You, you make people want to do the things you ask of them, and they will, because they want your approval.”
“Thank you, but I am not up for an award. This is me, remember.” he intoned slowly. “No pretence, no nothing, I am me, Mycroft. If I’m pissed off, you’ll know about it. If I’m happy, you can tell.”
Mycroft frowned. “I still fail to see why you would be concerned about me.”
Greg sighed. “This again. Mycroft, why would someone not be interested in you?”
“Because I am...not easy to live with, Gregory. As I told you, most people want me for what I know, not who I am. I am under no illusions. I am a middle-aged, confirmed gay man, I look permanently exhausted and I am ginger…”
“Nothing wrong with gingers, besides you’re more of an auburn, aren’t you? Darker, more mysterious?” Greg's laugh was on the verge of suggestive.
“Now you are taking the piss, Gregory.” Mycroft resembled a ruffled owl, all huffilly fluffed out.
“Teasing, Myc. I’m not in the market to disrespect you. Lighten up a little, it’s not all doom and gloom, you know. How’s your dessert?”
“Quite pleasant, I can assure you.”
“Gimme a taste?”
“Pardon?”
“I said…”
“I heard you. I just couldn’t quite believe my ears. We are in public, Gregory.”
“Sod that, life’s too short. Here,” he retorted, spooning some pudding up and offering it over. Mycroft stared at the spoon, scandalised. “Oh, go on, Mycroft. Take a risk?”
“Take a…” Mycroft shook his head, wonderingly. “I never take risks, Gregory. You of all people should know that.” He leaned in and took the spoon in his mouth, the taste of chocolate bursting on his tongue. “Oh, my…” he murmured when he was able. “That was…”
“Good, yeah? So go on, gimme a bit of yours then?”
Mycroft hesitated only a moment before spooning some of the sorbet up and holding it out. Greg leaned in and wrapped his lips around the morsel, tongue licking suggestively. He swallowed, and then burst out laughing. “God, Mycroft, your face…”
Mycroft coloured to the roots of his hair. “Gregory Lestrade, you are a rogue! You are a bad, bad man…”
Their eyes met and Greg smiled. “Evening the odds, remember?” he said gently.
“I still don’t understand why?”
“Why even the odds or why you?”
“Why on earth should you be interested in me? That way? Assuming you are, and this is not some elaborate charade to sleep your way up the ranks…”
“Sleep my way up the ranks? Christ, Myc, that’s… actually that’s not a bad idea. You want to put a word in for me when they’re appointing the next Chief?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Rogue. I was right. You are irredeemable and you haven't even tried to sleep with me yet.”
“You need a rogue, Mycroft. I just...I don’t know, okay? I’ve always liked you, I guess. Ever since I first saw you and thought you were way out of my league. I knew there was more to it when I realised how I would have felt had I lost you all. I guess I didn’t know how I really felt until that hit me, that I would have mourned John and Sherlock, but I would have really regretted losing you.”
“But there would have been nothing to mourn, Gregory. There is nothing between us.”
“Yet, Mycroft. Nothing between us yet. And that is why I would have regretted it. Not having had the chance. Not having said anything to you. Not having been allowed to care about you. Do you know how that feels? No, of course not. You have no idea…”
“The same way as you have no idea how much I feel I owe you.”
“Owe me? You don’t owe me anything.”
“You see? I beg to differ. You are the reason I still possess a baby brother. You rescued him, you engaged him, you fathered him. You guided, and protected, and you cared for him where I could not, where he would not accept it from me.”
“I didn’t exactly keep him safe.”
“You were there for him far more than anyone else before John Watson arrived, and even then, you seem to care more for him than John does sometimes. You definitely nurtured him.”
“Yeah, well, he’s special, isn’t he? He was worth saving, worth helping. A great man, your brother, and now he’s a good one too.”
“You can rest easy, Gregory, in the knowledge that your faith was not misplaced.”
“And it isn’t misplaced with you, you know?”
“I fail to see…”
“You see but you do not observe.”
“Please, Gregory, quit trying to throw my brother’s words back at me.”
“Not until you accept that I see the same qualities in you. A great man, and a good one. Not perfect, not a saint, but I don’t want a saint, Mycroft. You can sin as much as you like.”
Mycroft noted that Greg’s eyes had gone dark, pupils dilated. Dear God, the tells were all there, Mycroft thought. The man had leaned forward, and his steady gaze held Mycroft’s, broadcasting his interest. Mycroft also noted that his blinking had slowed down as well, indicating his focus was sharply on Mycroft. The involuntary dilation of the pupils was the give away though. That was definitely not under one’s control. Gregory Lestrade, whether he knew it or not, was definitely attracted to Mycroft Holmes.
“I hesitate to suggest this, Gregory…. But are we done here? Should we… take this upstairs?”
“Why not?” Greg said. “How about we order coffee and brandy upstairs, room service?”
“Certainly. I shall arrange it now.”
Upstairs, Mycroft paused by his door, uncertainty kicking in. “Gregory...I… I do hope...I don’t… well…”
“Mycroft, stop,” Greg said gently. “I’m not going to pressure you. Into anything. Let’s just… see what happens?” Once again, Greg offered a hand. Mycroft stared at the hand for a heartbeat before accepting, placing those cool long fingers into Greg’s warm strong ones. He felt the shiver radiate through Greg’s body.
Dear God, Mycroft wondered as he slid his key card into his door. What have I started?
———————
The moment the door was shut, Mycroft expected Greg to pounce and was therefore more than a little surprised when he didn’t. Greg did step up close behind him as he stood gazing out of the window at the Christmas lights on the trees. It was snowing again.
“Do you find it beautiful, the snow?” Mycroft asked.
“Yes, I do. Why?”
“Oh, only that it is cold, and impersonal, and can be deadly…”
“Yeah, but that could be a front, you know? Underneath it’s just soft and mushy and likes people to play with it. I find it beautiful.” Fingers brushed Mycroft’s neck, just above the collar. He shivered. It began as a tingle on his scalp and went all the way down his spine to his toes. “I find it soft as well,” the gentle voice murmured in his ear. “Layered in ways I never expected. It might seem cold, but it’s waiting for the right person to come along, to mould it into shape and give it form…” Hands stroked down his arms, fingers twining with his. He felt a warm body press close against him, warm breath on his neck, lips pressing gently to the skin behind his ear. Mycroft’s breath hitched, his eyes slid closed and he shivered again, a whole body shudder this time. He tipped his head back, tilting his chin, exposing his throat. Greg hummed approval and pressed his lips to the pale skin over Mycroft's Adam's apple.
“Please…” Mycroft whispered.
“Please what? What do you want, Mycroft?”
“I...I have to admit I am not...not absolutely sure.”
“Can I help?”
“How?”
“Talk to me, Myc. Come on, let’s sit down and we can discuss this…” A knock interrupted him. Mycroft broke away and went to answer it, finding that their coffee had arrived along with a rather fine brandy, a bottle of port, and a platter of savoury biscuits and cheese. Their waiter brought it in and placed the tray on the table, and Mycroft tipped him as he left. Before he closed the door firmly, he hung a Do Not Disturb sign outside.
“There,” he said with a small smile. “All prepared.”
“Come and get your coffee,” Greg suggested, already pouring their drinks. He handed him a cup. “There you go, sugar no milk?”
“Thank you.” Mycroft sat, a little awkwardly, and sipped. “I sincerely do not want to disappoint you, Gregory.”
“Now why on earth do you think you would do that, Mycroft?”
“Because I am woefully inexperienced between the sheets. I imagine you would prefer someone...more experienced.”
“First off, no second guessing. I don’t prefer anything particular. I don’t need anybody experienced, just someone willing. Besides, I thought you Holmeses were quick learners?”
“Appreciably.”
“Then you won’t stay inexperienced, will you? I think you lack data, isn’t that what your brother is always saying?”
Mycroft shuddered. “Kindly don’t bring him into this.”
Greg grinned. “Sorry. Look, Mycroft, this isn't a test. You're not under scrutiny. Relax, drink your coffee, have a brandy. It's Christmas.”
“That's your answer for everything, isn’t it? It's Christmas.”
Greg sipped his brandy. “Have you got a better one?”
Mycroft glared, then he deflated. “In this instance, no.”
Greg sat down beside him and scooted closer. Mycroft looked up and their eyes met. “Gregory, I…”
“Shh, Myc.” Greg pressed a gentle fingertip to Mycroft’s lips to quiet him. “Just kiss me.”
Wide eyed, Mycroft took a shaky breath and leaned in. Their lips met gently. Greg reached for him and pulled him into a gentle embrace, one hand behind his back, one hand sliding up to cup his cheek. Mycroft’s hands slid up to Greg’s shoulders, holding on as though to steady himself. Greg risked swiping his tongue across Mycroft’s lips, teasing. Mycroft opened his mouth with a soft gasp and allowed him entry, their tongues meeting tentatively. He tasted of coffee, and chocolate, and something uniquely Mycroft.
Greg pulled back and looked him in the eyes. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft,” he said softly, hand over Mycroft’s shirt front, over his heart.
“Compliments of the season, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, breathlessly. “That was…I was wrong.”
“Wrong? About what?”
“Your Christmas present. I believe I said it was the best thing anyone had ever given me.”
“You did.”
“Well, I was wrong.” Mycroft gazed into Gregory’s eyes. “This,” he said. “This surpasses all others.”
“Still scared?”
“Positively terrified.”
Greg grinned. “Fear not,” he said and took Mycroft in his arms again.

***
Chapter 2: The Odds Are In Our Favour

Later, if anyone had asked Mycroft Holmes exactly how long he had spent submitting to Gregory Lestrade placing gentle kisses along his neck, he would have found it difficult to say precisely, and as a rule Mycroft Holmes was a very precise person. He was never late. His timing was impeccable. His predictions were accurate, based on available data. For him to be so distracted was...unusual, confusing, terrifying if he let himself think about it… He was a long way out of his comfort zone, and he was in bliss.
Gregory’s exquisitely gentle foreplay seemed to have lasted forever. He was being so cautious, the man was in danger of being too careful. It was as if he were afraid that Mycroft might bolt like a frightened deer at the slightest hint of pressure. All Mycroft could feel was the gentle press of lips along the sensitive skin of his neck; under his ear, along his throat, over his Adam’s apple. Occasionally there would be a rasp of stubble, that tongue would take a surreptitious lick, tasting him, and warm breath would raise goosebumps along his skin.
Mycroft Holmes had known for a long time that he was a sensual person. He favoured good food with strong distinctive flavours, fine full-bodied wines, rich tasting coffee of good quality, and single estate dark chocolate. He adored the feel of fine fabrics against his skin; soft linen, cashmere, silk and velvet. Growing up in the seventies had meant that velvet jackets were in fashion, so he had begged mummy to let him have one and then he had spent rather too much time surreptitiously stroking the soft fabric. Mummy would never entertain the idea of a cat or a furry pet of any kind, but every cat, dog or other fur-clad denisen of the neighbourhood that Mycroft came across (that would allow him near) suffered much stroking as a result.
Nor did he lack for indulgent menus. He learned that indulgence was dangerous, however. He was unfortunately prone to chubbiness, the puppy fat of his youth making him vulnerable to unkind comments from his brother, and worse, bullying from his peers. Mycroft was nothing if not clever, though, and retribution was swift. Despite his youth, he managed to ruin the parents of more than one injudicious bully at school, and sometimes it was not that hard to accomplish. Word soon got around that he was not an individual to be messed with. It definitely did not make him any friends, and further alienated him from his peers, but at least it kept him safe. Nobody dared talk to him in fact. Indulgence therefore was a temptation, and every temptation became an exercise in discipline. It hardened him for his future career, but left him lacking in both physical and mental comfort. The Iceman had been honed at a young age.
“Mycroft? Mycroft.” Gregory’s gentle voice coaxed him out of his endorphin induced dream-like daze. The man chuckled. “Look at you, you’re nearly asleep. Let’s take this to the bedroom?” Gregory was standing, holding out an encouraging hand. Mycroft took it and wondered not for the first time exactly how had he ended up here with this amazingly kind and patient man? He was pulled to his feet and towed gently toward the bed. In the bedroom area, Greg paused and gave him a warm reassuring smile and gathered him into a hug again. They stood like that until Mycroft relaxed. Warm hands ran up and down his back, stroking, soothing. It quite melted Mycroft’s heart. The Iceman, he reflected, was thawing in the face of this man’s warmth. Gregory was acclimatising him, he knew, getting him used to close physical contact without pressure, without haste. There was absolutely no rush, no urgency. Gregory was nothing if not patient and he had an instinctive understanding that in no way would haste be good in Mycroft’s case. Intimacy was rare in Mycroft’s life. Hugs from his mother were to be expected, but from anyone else they posed a potential threat. Mycroft’s knee-jerk rigidity when Greg had first drawn the man into his arms was impossible to ignore after all.
Mycroft had already shed his jacket, and eventually Greg reached for his waistcoat, blunt fingers easing each little button out of its hole with exquisite care, as if he might hurt them by being too rough. He eventually slid the garment off Mycroft’s shoulders, hands stroking down his shirt-clad arms. Instead of starting on Mycroft’s shirt buttons, however, Greg stepped back and started on his own clothing, keeping his eyes on Mycroft as he did so. He slid his fingers down to the first button of his own shirt and eased it open, still slow but with less care than he had on Mycroft’s clothing. He slid his fingers down to the next button and eased that open. Then came the next, and the next, and the next, slow and steady, letting his shirt fall open as he did so.
Mycroft’s mouth dried as he watched the display, seeing dark chest hair revealed as Greg’s shirt parted. He felt himself blush under Greg’s intense gaze and huffed irritably. Blushing always made him feel like an awkward teenager, gauche and insecure, but Greg’s smile was reassuringly warm as he tugged his shirt tails free from his trousers. He glanced down at Mycroft’s chest and back up to his face again, conveying with his gaze what he was waiting for. Mycroft blinked, and glanced down, fingers touching the top button of his own shirt. He looked back up at Greg for confirmation and the man grinned and gave him a tiny nod of approval. Mycroft began to unfasten his own buttons, twisting each one impatiently out of the way, gradually exposing himself to Gregory’s eyes. Mycroft realised that Greg was firmly placing control back in his hands, separating them a little, allowing Mycroft both the space and the time to adjust.
When Greg stepped close again, reaching to rake his fingers through the ginger curls on Mycroft’s chest, his breath was a little ragged. His nails scratched lightly, setting Mycroft’s nerves afire, and Greg felt the man shiver under his touch. He moved his hands up, under the fine fabric of Mycroft’s shirt, and skimmed the garment off his shoulders, slow and sensual, letting it fall to the floor.
“Gorgeous,” he murmured, stroking his hands back down the man’s pale arms, feeling the understated muscles beneath the skin. Mycroft opened his mouth to scoff at that, but was silenced by Greg’s mouth on his, effectively swallowing the protest. The kiss was gentle, and when they parted, Greg smiled and said “Shh, you are gorgeous.” He followed it up with another hug, pressing their bodies close, this time skin to skin.
Pressed close to such warm flesh, Mycroft found himself unable to ignore the sheer masculinity of the man in front of him. He knew that he himself remained somewhat academic and aesthetic, even slightly effeminate, his skin pale and freckled and largely untouched by the sun. On the other hand, Gregory was solidly built and strong, his skin warm and still somewhat tanned, even in winter. It gave him a healthy virile look that, coupled with his broad shouldered frame, was most definitely all male. Mycroft had never seen Greg’s passionate side, although he had seen his ire, directed at Sherlock and the world in general on more than one occasion. The man was currently holding himself masterfully in check, but desire was smouldering beneath the surface. Mycroft could see it in the dilated pupils, the tension in his muscles, and he marvelled that it was being directed at him. He wondered what it would be like to simply be taken, to be swept away like some heroine in a bodice ripper… He could not suppress the resulting chuckle…
“What?” Greg pulled back, puzzled, and curious.
“Nothing. I… Nothing,” Mycroft reassured. “I was being fanciful, that’s all…”
“Yeah? How?”
“This is… all very...I don’t know, dirty weekend? The stuff of romance novels?”
“Dirty weekend? Christ, that’s an old one.” Greg laughed, then he sobered. “Hope you don’t mean this is...well, wrong. Not what you wanted, or something…”
“Oh, no, I mean, no, far from it, just…”
“Because if you want to stop, then all you have to do is say so. You can trust me, Myc. I mean, I’d be more than disappointed… but I’d prefer for you to be certain you can trust me, than for us to do something you find...well, distasteful.” Greg studied him, trying to gage his reaction. “Although, if you think this is the stuff of romance novels, what the fuck have you been reading?”
“I...nothing. I mean...I don’t actually read romances, Gregory. God forbid. Although I am familiar with the stereotype. Heavens, I expect most people are. You know, the handsome hero sweeps the heroine off her feet…”
“Er...who is sweeping who off his feet here? Because at the moment, I feel pretty swept, actually.”
“You?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“I was not aware of doing any sweeping, that’s why not. I believe you are the sole motivator here. I feel as though I am following your lead, not the other way around. My woeful lack of experience is interfering in my participation in this...endeavour. I am plainly reactive, rather than proactive, while you....” Mycroft felt the heat slide up his neck. “You are...breathtaking.”
Greg’s mouth bent in a smile. “Nonsense.” He leaned in to nuzzle into Mycroft’s neck. “You are perfect, love. Just...all warm and soft. What?” Greg had felt Mycroft stiffen slightly.
“Soft?”
“Yeah. It’s okay, I like that, Mycroft. No need to be embarrassed about a bit of softness. Come on, come to bed. It’s chilly out here.” Greg leaned down and tugged the duvet aside.
“Gregory, it is not chilly. The heating is fine…”
“Bed, Mycroft.”
“I believe you are wearing too many clothes for bed, Gregory.”
“Yeah, me too. Come to that, so are you.”
“We should perhaps remedy that?”
“Yeah, we should…” Greg unfastened his trousers without ceremony and dropped them to pool at his feet, reaching down to pull off his socks. “Join me then?”
“I…” Mycroft froze at the sight before his eyes. Clad in only his dark cotton boxer shorts, Gregory was beautiful. “Your clothes never do you justice,” he murmured. “You are...quite magnificent.”
Greg blinked and looked down at himself, patting his stomach. “Me? Nah, I’m middle aged and saggy…”
“Heaven forfend that anyone ever refer to you as saggy!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Even you. Gregory, do you have no idea how you look? You are…” Plenty of words tumbled over each other in the turnstile of Mycroft’s mind in their attempt to get through to adequately describe the delectable man in front of him, but few made the grade. “You manage to keep yourself fit.” Mycroft cringed inwardly at how lame that sounded.
“Yeah, well, haring after criminals will do that to you.”
“Come now, I cannot believe you hare after that many criminals.”
“Not so many now, maybe…”
“So what else do you do to maintain your physique?”
“Well, I swim, as you saw, and there are lots of steps at NSY.”
“Steps.”
“Yeah, I take the steps, ‘stead of the lift. If I’ve time. I also watch what I eat. Have to be careful. But I don’t deny myself treats. That’s a disaster. You crave them more, and end up making yourself miserable, and what’s the point of that?”
“Indeed…”
“Mycroft, you are not fat, in fact, your body is…very nice, what little I’ve seen. So you have soft bits, who cares? In men our age, not to have some softness somewhere would be abnormal.”
“But you are...far and away more attractive…”
“Nope!” Greg came close and placed a firm hand on Mycroft’s mouth. “None of that,” he said gently. “Not going there. I don’t want to hear another word. We are not in a competition. Never will be. Why won’t you accept the fact that I find you desirable?” He took his hand away and Mycroft licked his lips.
“Because I do not feel...worthy of you, Gregory.”
“Hush,” Greg said, gently, “It’s not about being worthy. It’s about each of us finding the other attractive.” He ran both hands up Mycroft’s arms to his shoulders as he spoke, then skimmed one palm down the man’s chest, across the slightly soft but still flat stomach, to his belt. He undid the buckle, eased the button open, then whispered the zip down.
Warm hands slid under the waistband of both trousers and underwear and eased the cloth down across Mycroft’s bum, giving it a cheeky squeeze on the way. Greg was grinning, the rogue. Mycroft submitted to the caress as he lost the last protective layer that was his armour against the world. He stepped out of his trousers and stood still, a little uncertain under the man’s gaze.
“Oh, that’s a lovely sight,” Greg murmured.
“You have me at a slight disadvantage, Inspector,” Mycroft murmured, looking down.
“Oh? Oh, yeah…sorry,” he said, unrepentant, and without hesitation hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his own boxers and slid them off. Mycroft’s mouth watered at the sight that was revealed.
Greg stepped close again, grinning. “Bed?” he suggested hopefully. “We’re not wearing too much now.”
“We’re not wearing anything.”
“Exactly. Wow, there’s no getting anything past you, is there?”
“Gregory!” Mycroft huffed again. Greg chuckled.
“I love it when you get all huffy, it’s adorable.”
“Please! I am not adorable, in any way, shape or form…”
“You are, you’re gorgeous. At least, I think so, and when all’s said and done, does anybody else’s opinion matter? I’d very much like you to be mine and mine alone. I don’t want to share you, so other people’s opinions mean nothing.”
“That’s not entirely true, Gregory. I am highly aware of how people view me, and I am not going to give them any more ammunition. In some cases, their opinion matters a great deal. I am not in a position to let my outward appearance slip when in public.”
“No reason why you should, but you do have an adorable side, even if you never show it to anyone else. I would be...honoured, if you’d show it to me, and me alone.”
“You...you just said...you said you wanted me to be yours?”
“Yes. Mine alone, Mycroft.” Greg had gone a bit quiet, soft voiced. He stroked one finger along Mycroft’s arm, pensively. “If...that meets with your approval?”
“Exclusivity,” Mycroft murmured and Greg nodded, expression guarded, his gaze unwaveringly locked on Mycroft’s. “You want what any sane person would refer to as a relationship, with me? Are you sure that’s wise, Gregory? Why not leave it to a romp between the sheets? That would be so much safer...”
That triggered another blinding smile. “Yeah, don’t I know it. Look, of course it’s not wise. It’s bloody insane is what it is, but any relationship is, Mycroft. Two people trying to share their lives, bloody mad, has to be. Never gonna be easy, and I speak from experience. Look, I’m terrified I might stuff this up again. Been there, done that, as they say, and now I’m sad and lonely because it didn’t work, but that’s no reason not to have another go. No one can know what life holds, Myc. I don’t want to regret missing my opportunity with you, and I’m not expecting anything. I want it to succeed, yes of course I do, but I understand it might not. Not to try, though, not to actually give it a go...That I would regret.”
“You are...remarkable…”
“Not a bit, Mycroft. I suggest you have me sectioned, I’m obviously not in my right mind. This is complete madness…” He leaned in and placed a kiss against Mycroft’s cheek, moving round to his mouth, peppering little kisses against his lips, nuzzling nose to nose. Mycroft responded in kind, eyes sliding closed, lost in the moment. Greg guided him backwards to the bed, and tugged him to sit, then swiftly pushed him to lie down. Then he started at Mycroft’s feet, kissing his ankles, working his way up the inside of Mycroft’s shin, licking and kissing and nipping up the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh. Mycroft squirmed, but Greg’s strong hands were on him, holding him in place while he worked his way all the way up to Mycroft’s hip, nipping and kissing the thin skin there. Mycroft could only watch and feel as Greg moved upward, worshipping him. When he reached Mycroft’s stomach, he nuzzled the softness, despite Mycroft reaching to cover the slight bulge with his hands.
“Don’t,” Greg whispered, gently moving his hands away. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, you know? So you’ve got a bit of cuddle. I like that, love.” He nuzzled Mycroft’s belly button, stroking and kissing again. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
He moved up, kissing across Mycroft’s chest, kissing each nipple and lavishing attention on each little nub of flesh until it was standing proud, suckling each one into his mouth and nipping gently with his teeth. Mycroft’s breathy gasps and groans were music to Greg’s ears.
Greg paused and both men glanced down, Greg openly admiring, Mycroft rather more wary, eying two very impressive erections. Then Greg pressed his body down to Mycroft’s, aligning perfectly so those erections rubbed deliciously against each other. Mycroft gasped loudly at the pressure, whimpering as Greg began to move against him.
“Oh...Gregory...that’s...will this work? I mean… can we… you know?”
“Can we get off on this, you mean? Possibly, we’ll have to see, won’t we? Hang on…damn, we could do with… some lubrication.”
“Top drawer, on the left.”
Greg reached to the bedside cabinet and pulled the drawer open. Under the neatly folded handkerchiefs were several sachets of lube. No condoms though. So Mycroft was prepared for satisfying himself, rather than for an encounter with anyone else. He obviously hadn’t been expecting to get laid. The thought was quite reassuring.
Trying not to get lube on the sheets, Greg tore the pack with his teeth, tasting strawberries.
“I like the taste,” Mycroft murmured, on seeing Greg’s raised eyebrows.
Greg squeezed a little onto Mycroft’s cock, apologising when Mycroft gasped with the cold. He discarded the pack to the bedside table and quickly aligned their bodies again to warm the stuff up, pressing kisses to Mycroft’s neck in apology as he slid against the other man, the pressure and friction combining deliciously to ramp up the heat.
“Gre...Gregory…”
“Hm? What?” Greg focused on Mycroft’s face, the blue eyes concerned. “What’s the matter, love?”
“N...nothing, just….I thought you would want...well…” Greg watched Mycroft’s cheeks colour in embarrassment.
“What did you think I would want, love?”
“P...penetration?”
For a moment, Greg just looked at him. “Is this not working for you?”
“N.n.no, it’s...working very well…Very well. I simply considered that you would want...more?”
“That’s not… Mycroft, don’t you know?”
“No, I do not. Elucidate for me, please?”
Greg sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Mycroft, it isn’t the be all and end all, you know? Seriously. If you want it, and only if, then yes, I am prepared to consider it. Anal is good, if done right, but it isn’t the only way to have sex. I certainly do not expect it, and we’re equal here, okay? If you want to fuck me, then all you have to do is ask. Do you?”
“I am...not sure. The idea has appeal, I have to admit. The thought of...fucking you…” He shivered, hard. “I would have thought you would not have wanted that though. I know some men only want to top.”
“I don’t actually care, truth to tell. Sex is sex, after all. It’s not a power play to me. It’s about fulfilling your partner’s pleasure, and if you’re both giving, nobody loses, right?”
“That is a very sensible outlook.”
“The only one that works if you want to make things work. Okay now?”
“Mmm, yes. Thank you, Gregory. You are infinitely patient with me...I feel...somewhat lacking…”
“Pfft, enough of that. You’re just lacking the data, Mycroft. You’ll pick it up quickly enough. No worries. Now….” He raised himself up again, moving to cover Mycroft’s body with his own. “Where were we?” He reached down and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s cock, teasing it to hardness again with a few gentle tugs before resuming their frotting, feeling the man arch underneath him. Greg bent to nip and suck at the delicious nipples again, swirling his tongue around them, closing his teeth on them, tugging gently. Fingers wound into his hair, flexing into the short strands.
For Mycroft, the urge to tug and pull the silver strands of his lover’s hair was almost irresistible. Gregory was all over him, thrusting against him slowly and sensuously. Mycroft was matching him though, their bodies slick with sweat. When that mouth closed over his nipples again… Mycroft’s fingers flexed, hard, and he stammered an apology but it was met with a frankly filthy chuckle and no cessation of what that mouth was doing to him. He felt the pleasure start to build, and then Greg was moving, lifting off him, and he groaned in frustration.
“Hush, love, s’okay,” Gregory soothed, voice husky and soft. “I’ve got you.” Moments later, Mycroft’s prick was enveloped in wet heat, the pressure of a wicked tongue being applied to the underside, and then...Oh, my God...He was sucked hard, repeatedly. Simultaneously a hand palmed his testicles, squeezing and tugging. Mycroft threw his head back into the pillows with a loud moan, senses on overload. When he felt a finger teasing along the gluteal cleft, pressing and probing, that was all it took to send him over the edge, his body convulsing, spilling itself into that willing mouth as he was sucked to completion.
Mycroft had no idea how long he lay there in complete and total bliss, allowing his heart rate to return to normal. When he opened his eyes, Greg was staring down at him with a grin.
“Enjoyed that, love?”
“You are a wicked rogue, Gregory.”
“Feeling okay?”
“Oh...yes…” Again that wicked chuckle.
“Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”
“What about… well, you haven’t…yet? Have you?” For answer, Greg loomed over him and licked a stripe up his stomach, humming in pleasure. Before he could say more, Greg’s mouth was on his, tongue sliding sensuously against his own. When they broke for air, Greg’s smile was fond.
“We’ve plenty of time, Mr Holmes,” he said softly.
“Teach me to do...what you did to me?”
“You need teaching?”
“I have done it before but long ago and...I regret to admit, not very successfully. At least, the subject of my attentions did not seem to think so. It quite put me off.”
“Just give it a go, Myc. I’ll...offer suggestions.”
Mycroft gave him a look, then moved down the bed, treating him to soft kisses down his chest. Mycroft took a leaf out of Greg’s book and spent some time on each nipple, laving them with his tongue, nipping with his teeth, nosing the hair across his chest, and licking down the man’s noticeably flatter stomach. Greg’s resulting noises were enthusiastic and appreciative and bolstered Mycroft’s confidence somewhat.
Faced with such an impressive erection, Mycroft hesitated. The man was not particularly long, but his girth was impressive. Uncut, too. He licked a tentative swirl across the glans, feeling the shudder go through Gregory’s body as he did so. He took the head in his mouth, sucking, swirling, and gradually, under Greg’s murmured suggestions, learned the man beneath him. Strong hands guided, positioning, encouraging, and pretty soon, Greg was arching beneath him, cursing steadily.
“Close, Myc...so...f.fucking close…” With a shiver, Mycroft felt Greg’s hands on his head, fingers pressing but not forcing. Mycroft marvelled, swallowed him even further down, simultaneously wrapping a hand around Greg’s balls, tugging cautiously.
A long drawn out “Ohhhh,” followed, and then Greg convulsed, moaning, Mycroft’s name on his lips as he road out his own climax. There was no way Mycroft could swallow it all, there was too much and while not completely unpleasant, he could not count the taste among his favourites.
“What’s up, love?” Greg was watching the concern in his lover’s eyes.
“I regret to say, I do not find swallowing all that appealing.”
“Hell, I’m sorry, love. It’s not to everyone’s taste. Don’t worry.”
“But you swallowed…”
“Yeah, but I don’t demand you do the same. Jesus, Mycroft, we’re all different. One man’s meat and all…”
“Quite.” Their eyes met and they both chuckled.
“Sorry, no pun intended. I’m addled on endorphins right now. That was...spectacular.”
“Merry Christmas to you too, Gregory.”
Greg looked down their bodies. “Shower?” he suggested.
“Capital idea.”
“No. better idea. Bath. Let’s relax together.”
“You’ll fall asleep.”
“No, I won’t. You’ll be there to wake me up.”
“And if I fall asleep?”
“Then I’ll wake you up.”
“Gregory,” Mycroft said with exaggerated patience, “what if we both fall asleep?”
“I dunno, set your phone alarm?”
“Intelligent, as well as handsome.”
“Thank you. Come on, let’s go before I change my mind and wake up tomorrow stuck to the sheets. Too old for that.”
Wallowing in the large opulent bath was the fitting end to a perfect day in Greg Lestrade’s opinion. Wallowing while allowing Mycroft Holmes to rest against his chest in the hot water was even better. They had decided to shower to clean off, and then Greg ran the bath so they could relax. Mycroft had poured them both a glass of champagne, and now here they were, water cooling slowly around them, content and at peace. Now and again Greg leaned in to place soft kisses along Mycroft’s shoulders. They stayed until the water had cooled, their champagne was gone and their skin had wrinkled, and Mycroft’s phone alarm alerted them not to fall asleep.
Later, dry and warm in bed, Greg cuddled his lover close, and raised a mental toast to their future.

***
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