Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

More than a bit harried around the edges, Greg dashed up the stairs to Bertram’s, and it was only his police-honed reflexes which prevented him from face-planting the top step when he trod on a errant shoelace. Mentally cursing the string of bad luck which had made him late for dinner with Mycroft again, Greg paused for just long enough to steady himself with the banister before presenting himself to Jean-Marie, the maître d'hôtel.

“Mr Holmes is at his usual table,” Jean-Marie said, patently amused, before Greg could speak. It wasn’t the first time this particular man had seen Greg falling up the stairs, after all, so Greg bit back a sigh and mumbled his thanks.

It was a winding course through the restaurant to Mycroft’s preferred table, and it took long enough for Greg to have time to straighten his shirt and flatten his hair. There was nothing he could do about his soggy left sock, but he hoped that he at least looked less of a walking disaster by the time he got to his friend.

"If Sergeant Casbolt can't talk to her own DI, she really ought to take it up with HR rather than persistently rely on keeping you back, particularly when you had such a rushed lunch. Do sit down; I've taken the liberty of ordering." Mycroft regarded him in the calm way that told Greg that Mycroft knew exactly what a disaster his day had been, and Greg felt some of the tension leave him. "The tube is invariably atrocious at this time of day; if you would just allow me to send a car, you wouldn't have been caught out by the puddle either. And you really must start to double-knot your shoelaces when you go out to so many scenes in a day. Wine?"

“Yeah, I think I’d better.” Greg sank into his chair with an odd sound that was half sigh and half laugh. “Go on, how the hell do you know I rushed my lunch?”

"Mayonnaise on your tie,” Mycroft replied, eyes glinting in gentle amusement, and poured Greg a glass of their preferred red.

“Bugger.” Greg lifted the tail of his tie with a sigh and glared at it. “And here was me hoping I only felt like a hot mess.”

Mycroft somehow managed to flinch with his face. “Where do you get these expressions?”

Fighting down a smile, Greg felt his cheeks heat. “You try sitting between Leah and Todesha to binge-watch RuPaul’s Drag Race without picking up the lingo up. Apparently me coming out means they can sit me down in front of anything they think will help equip me for going out into the LGBT community.” He drank gratefully. “I can’t believe my little girl is old enough that she thinks she needs to educate me.”

"I'm surprised that you were able to tolerate it for long enough for the idiom to sink in."

“It’s kinda addictive,” Greg replied, hoping that his face wasn’t as red as it felt. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed by getting into something so very gay, but it was frivolous and silly, and Mycroft was bascially the polar opposite of both. “You should see some of the things the queens can make from bags of crap, never mind the heels they wear; my feet come out in sympathy pain every time we watch it.” Greg sipped his drink again, briefly savouring the strong fruity flavours, and raised his glass. “Here’s to your palate again.”

Mycroft raised his own glass politely and sipped his drink. "Yes. Roy Haylock in particular is an excellent dressmaker."

Surprised that Mycroft knew who any of them were, and amused at the thought of Mr Prim and Proper watching something as camp as Drag Race, Greg grinned. “Are you a secret fan?”

"Of Mr Haylock? Most certainly."

“You mean Bianca Del Rio.” Greg nudged Mycroft’s left foot teasingly. “She’s almost as scary as you are.”

"She is a delight. I had the pleasure of seeing her perform a number of years ago."

“You’ll have to take me with you next time,” Greg replied, almost giddy at the thought that he could just go off with his friend to see anything he wanted to now that he was divorced. Despite it having been finalised seven months earlier, the sense of freedom from his serial adulterer ex-wife had not lost its shine. He spotted the waiter heading in their direction and bit back the news he had been about to share, and his excitement built over the course of the minute that the young man was with them. “Speaking of gay things,” he said when they were alone, “I’ve got someting to tell you.”

“Mm?” Mycroft hummed, conveying pleased amusement without saying a thing.

Knowing that Mycroft almost certainly knew what Greg was going to say and was happy for him shifted Greg’s excitement up a gear. “Gary and Joel were round for a few drinks at the weekend and they talked me into joining one of those dating sites. I’ve had loads of contacts, and some of ‘em don’t even sound like weirdos.”

“Please tell me that I won’t find you on Grindr,” Mycroft replied in a tone of voice that was part sigh and part smile.

“That would be telling,” Greg laughed with a playful wink. “Hang on, am I going to find you on Grindr?”

"I could not possibly comment."

Greg, recognising Mycroft’s playful streak for what it was, laughed happily. A comfortable silence passed, with each man dedicating himself to his food for a few minutes. He waited for Mycroft to finish his starter, which was some sort of fish with a fancy drizzle, before continuing. “I thought about it. Signing up for hook-ups, I mean, but I’ve never been cut out for just sex, not even when I was a teenager. I’m not saying I want to jump feet first into another relationship, not after the mess with Jo, but I don’t want my first time with a man to be some hook-up in a filthy pub toilet.” He pointed at the last of his starter with his fork - he wasn’t entirely sure what it actually was, but Mycroft hadn’t ordered him a bad meal in the decade that they’d been meeting for dinner. “This is very good.”

"I shall have your compliments passed to the chef. How do you feel about re-entering the world of dating?"

“Nervous but excited. I won’t be rushing into anything, but I’m ready for this.” Greg’s lips curled into a smile without conscious input from his mind. “I’ve been wanting to be with a man since I was thirteen so this…you know, being out and hopefully meeting men is just…yeah.”

Mycroft’s warm smile felt like a reward for Greg’s honesty. "I am sure you will do splendidly. You are a good man, and it is very evident: you will not find yourself short of potential suitors.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, feeling a warm glow at Mycroft’s words. “Any tips for a beginner?”

"Do no harm, but take no shit? Oh, no: that one is for witches. Let me see..." The glint in Mycroft’s eye said that he was teasing, a sign that even Greg would have missed until fairly recently. "Ah, I have it: know your worth and do not accept any man who does not value you as he should. Be kind, but not to your own detriment. Be honest, but do not lay yourself bare until you are certain of your partner. Above all else, enjoy it, and when it ceases to please, move on."

“I’m telling Chloë you’ve been reading her witches’ manual again.” Greg smiled warmly and nudged Mycroft’s foot. “You’re very good at people, to say you claim to not give a shit about most of us. In fact, you’re one of the best friends I’ve had.”

“‘Friendship' is not my natural milieu, but one does one's best," Mycroft replied, simultaneously aloof and affectionate in the way that Greg had come to recognise as unique to Mycroft.

Putting on his best plummy accent, Greg replied, “One does very well,” and grinned when Mycroft actually laughed.

The waiter returned to clear their table, his quick, competent movements demonstrating an expertise that Greg had never acquired in his time waiting tables in his teens. As the young man was disappearing back towards the kitchen, Greg glanced back at Mycroft and decided that a change of topic was required. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to this week. Other than browsing Grindr, of course,” he smiled, relaxing back into his chair to enjoy what would undoubtedly be an account of a week which had been much more interesting than his own.

Chapter Text

Running late again, Greg walked up Midsomer Street as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a jog. In the distance, Big Ben chimed, telling Greg that he was exactly fifteen minutes late. Fifteen minutes was better than half an hour, he supposed, but it still wasn’t close to being on time.

Looking up, Greg was relieved to see that Bertram’s was comfortably within sight, and he slowed his pace hoping that he wouldn’t look like he’d run there again. At least it’s not my fault this time, he thought to himself as he jogged up the steps at the front of the building. Fucking Sherlock and his hunches.

“Good evening, Mr Lestrade. Allow Gemma to take your jacket,” Jean-Marie said as Greg arrived. “Mr Holmes is at his usual table and has ordered.”

“Right, thanks,” Greg replied, handing his jacket over to a smiling blonde only a year or two older than Leah. “I’ll be on time one of these days.”

“Of course, sir,” came the almost Mycroftian amused-yet-bland response as Greg set off in the direction of Mycroft’s favourite table.

Mycroft quirked a smile as Greg approached and raised a hand to stay the explanation of his tardiness. “You really ought to have wedged the door open if you didn’t want it to close behind you. Surely your adventures with my brother should have taught you that by now.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Greg growled as he dropped inelegantly into his chair, paying the tutting woman at the next table no mind. “We were in there for three hours! Sherlock couldn’t pick the lock because it was fucked and not locked, my team couldn’t justify breaking the door down because we were technically trespassing, and it took the better part of three sodding hours for DI Pryke to track the owners down to get permission to take the door off. And, just to add insult to injury, the world’s only consulting detective’s hunch was bloody wrong.” Greg poured himself a glass of wine when Mycroft appeared to be too busy smirking to do the honours. “That’s the last time I go off with Sherlock when he’s got a hunch.”

"That is the forty sixth time you've said that this year,” Mycroft replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Greg sighed, feeling much put-upon. “Yeah, well, I hadn’t been locked in the Mother Redcap then; I mean it this time. It was creepy.”

"You said something very similar after you had to spend the night in Hyde Park when you were treed by that swan, as I recall."

“You wouldn’t think it was funny if you had to spend a night up a tree with Sherlock because a psychotic swan took a dislike to you.” Greg sighed as memories of each of his and Sherlock’s escapades fought for dominance in his mind’s eye. “And a week later he left me in the lounge of that care home to distract old ladies who all apparently had a police fetish so he could raid that woman’s dressing table, and then had the gall to leave without me. Honestly, it was less stressful to supervise fifteen four year olds on sugar rushes at Maddie’s birthday party last weekend than it is to help Sherlock follow a hunch.” Greg smiled at the memory of his little girl surrounded by her cousins and friends, the air full of uncomplicated happiness and excitement. “Thank you for her present, by the way. She won’t take it off; I had a hell of a time getting it off for long enough to bathe her on Sunday.”

"I am delighted to hear it,” Mycroft replied, audibly pleased. It still tickled Greg that someone he’d sworn blind was the coldest bastard on the planet for the first couple of years of their acquaintance took such pleasure in spoiling his daughters. “How was your date? I understand that they were serving a rather good cheese soufflé."

“He—it was great,” Greg replied, feeling his face heat like he was a twelve year old who’d just been caught looking at the men’s underwear section in Kay’s catalogue. Again. “He’s coming to mine for dinner on Saturday. I was thinking about trying my hand at soufflé because Daniel loved it, but I’m not that good.”

Mycroft smiled and for a moment his eyes were more blue than grey. "I'm sure something can be arranged, if you want to learn; they're surprisingly easy when one has the knack, or so Sherlock tells me."

“I think I’ll keep it simple. It’s me he’s coming to see, not my cooking.” Greg hesitated, fiddling with his fork as he thought about how best to phrase his question. Eventually deciding that the direct way was the best way, he said, “I assume your people have checked him out, yeah? It’s my first time inviting a man over and I’d rather not start with a nutter. He doesn’t seem like one, but some people hide it well, and you hear stories, don’t you? We lost a copper to a killer who went hunting on Grindr recently, and that’s not a club I want to join —“ As Greg was rambling, Mycroft’s left index finger started circling the rim of his wine glass, and the action was enough break Greg’s cycle of increasingly dire possibilities. With a sigh, he picked up his own wine glass and drank, trying to ignore the bit of his mind gleefully pointing out how long and elegant Mycroft’s fingers were; this was not a good time for his crush to stick its head out of the locked box at the back of his mind. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

"His deep background check came back perfectly clean; two of my best interviewed him personally. He is what he seems to be: a good dentist and a good man." Mycroft smiled reassuringly and Greg found himself smiling back. "Malcolm even spoke to his rabbi."

Having been friends with Mycroft for so long, it did not come as a surprise that there had been such a thorough background check, but as much as he was relieved that his date wasn’t a wrong‘un, Greg didn’t particularly want Daniel thinking he was one, either. “… not that I’m not grateful, but how exactly did your people interview him without making him think I’m a nutter?”

The look Mycroft gave him was one that Greg was more accustomed to seeing on Sherlock’s face, and it was almost always followed by the younger Holmes calling some poor unfortunate an idiot. "You weren't mentioned, and neither of the interviewees was aware that he was being interviewed."

“Right. Well, that’s good.” Greg sipped his drink, but he was too excited to give it the appreciation it deserved. “I didn’t think I’d get past the third date this early on in the dating game. Not after the first two blokes I met, anyway. One thought all coppers were scum, and the other had a National Front tattoo. You wouldn’t think fascism would have much attraction to gay people, would you?” He grinned at the memory of that disastrous date, and supposed that he should have known how it was going to go when the bloke suggested meeting in Wetherspoons. “You should’ve seen his face when I asked the barman what on the menu was kosher.”

"I did, though I do wish you wouldn’t take such risks; one never knows how these people will react. Fortunately, the barman was one of a colleague's trainees and he was wearing a microcamera."

Greg snorted. “Don’t you think having me tailed on dates is a bit much? I can take care of myself, Mycroft.” As Greg reached for his glass, a thought occurred to him that stalled his hand in mid-air. “Please tell me there aren’t going to be spooks floating around outside my flat on Saturday.”

"No more than usual, no,” Mycroft replied placidly, and reached for the wine bottle to top up their glasses. "There are always officers in the vicinity of your flat. You are a target, therefore you are protected."

Hearing that unsettled Greg. It had been one thing when Mycroft had sat him down to warn him about Moriarty taking an interest in him because he was a weak spot for both of the Holmes boys, but that had been over for a year now. “I thought that was just until you were sure Moriarty’s lot were definitely done with. Is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

"No. At least not in the sense of an active threat, but you remain a person of interest to a number of parties because of your friendships with Sherlock and me."

Greg settled again, but something was still niggling at him. “Exactly how close is this surveillance? I mean, is there anything in the flat? You know, cameras and whatnot.”

"Only at the access points,” Mcyroft replied with a gentle shake of his head.

Feeling his face heat in pre-emptive embarrassment, Greg hesitated. “So if things…you know, with Daniel…” He cleared his throat and, deciding that he was fifty years old and had nothing to be embarrassed about, got a grip. “There’s nothing in my bedroom, is there? I don’t want any of your spooks seeing that.”

"No, you do not need to worry about that. There is an alarm on the window and an external-facing motion-triggered camera, though."

Greg nodded and the heat in his cheeks started to abate. “Out of interest, has anyone ever been caught up to no good?”

"Apparently so, but it wasn't our people who apprehended them,” Mycroft replied, amusement colouring his voice. "We are not the only ones interested in your wellbeing."

Having no idea what that meant, and not being particularly keen on knowing just how far the surveillance went lest he grow paranoid at home, Greg decided that ignorance was bliss and sighed. “I don’t think I want to know.”

As their regular waiter arrived with their food, Greg watched idly as the man at the table to their right eyed Greg’s plate of steak and chips with something akin to envy in his eyes and gave him a grin when their eyes eventually met. When the waiter had departed back in the direction of the kitchen, the two men dedicated themselves to their meals.

“I’m really excited about Saturday. It’s been years since I was last dating,” he said after several minutes of savouring his rib-eye. “We’ve been honest with each other, and neither of us is in the market for settling down, but I think we’re going to have a good time together.”

"I am confident that you are.” Mycroft smiled warmly and settled back in his chair, apparently at ease and happy. Greg’s heart skipped a beat at the sight, and it took a Herculean effort to force his inconvenient crush back into its box, adding a padlock of good measure. It had taken years for Mycroft to be this comfortable with him, and Greg knew that it was truly a privilege to be allowed to see his friend like this. He didn’t want to ruin a valued friendship with unreciprocated desires, and if anyone was going to see through him, it was Mycroft. He had, however, apparently got away with it this time because Mycroft’s smile widened. “Oh, here's a tidbit you'll enjoy. You recall my Whitehall man, Malcolm Tucker?"

“That’s the sweary bloke who was all over the papers like a pissing puppy the other year, yeah?”

"Yes; affectionately known as the Gorballs Göbbels. Well, Chloë has marked him as her prey."

“Has she, now?” Greg grinned at the thought of it. He’d only met the man once, but he’d left a hell of an impression. “I didn’t think she’d go in for that type.”

"She very much does, it seems. And of course Malcolm has no idea."

“Lucky him,” Greg laughed. “Someone’ll have to tell John that he’d’ve had more luck if he’d been swearing like a sailor.” He paused to savour the last of his steak before using a chip to soak up some of the juices. “Is he good enough for her? It’s quite the RAP sheet he had before you made it all disappear, and a bloke like that’ll have enemies.”

"It was part of his recruitment," Mycroft replied in a tone that said this should have been obvious. "An Anthea handed him the folder and ensured that someone had it in frame, in high enough quality to enhance."

Greg paused with his fork half way to his mouth. “How many Antheas have you got, exactly?”

"I haven't the slightest idea." A faint smile curled Mycroft’s lips. "Not my division."

Baffled, Greg looked at Mycroft over his chip. “Why are they all called Anthea, anyway? Chloë won’t tell me.”

"Because they aren't Thea." Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "It's a bad Latin joke. You're familiar with the statue in Piccadilly Circus? Commonly and incorrectly known as Eros. It's actually Anteros: literally 'Not-Eros'." Mycroft paused for a moment, and Greg imagined that the other man was running what he wanted to say through a Mycroft-to-normal-person translator to ensure that it made sense. "When Thea started placing her protegées, there were too many to recall immediately, and they rotated through the divisions doing essentially the same job, so they began to be identified as 'my Not-Thea' and 'the Not-Thea in Games And Theory' and so forth, and eventually one of the many failed classicists in the service came up with the terribly funny 'Anthea’. The ladies embraced it, and they are now known - even in SOPs - as Antheas. Chloë is a Senior Executive Anthea, and she has a staff of at least half a dozen Associate and Support Antheas. They have their own pay scales and progression grades; it’s really quite fascinating. And they all answer to the name." Mycroft sipped his wine. "An official can stand in the inner foyer and shout 'Anthea!', and twenty or so will turn up."

A proper laugh escaped Greg, loud enough that a haughty cow with a face like a slapped arse glowered at him from the table to Mycroft’s left, but Greg was unrepentant. “That’s…” he started before snickering. “That’s hilarious.”

"Mm; it is mildly amusing. Of course, it would never have started had we not by some quirk of circumstance had two consecutive heads of secretarial services by the name of Thea. Chloë, however, is rather taken with your term,” Mycroft added confidingly, with a pleased glint in his currently blue eyes.

“What, birds of prey? I half expected her to castrate me for calling them birds,” Greg replied, the fear that his balls were in danger the evening he realised that Chloë had overheard him a very real presence in his mind.

"Thea probably would have. Chloë is entertained."

“Well, as long as I’m still on her good side. They’re fucking terrifying, the lot of them.” Greg finished the last of his chips and sighed contentedly. “So, how’s your week been?”

"Oh, business as usual. Intelligence to analyse, assets to wrangle. Ministers to terrify."

“All normal in Mycroft land, then.” He watched as Mycroft finished the last of his meal and frowned. “There wasn’t much meat on that chicken, was there?”

“That’s because it was a pigeon, Greg,” Mycroft replied patiently.

“Was it really? You wouldn’t think there would be much call for that in places like this, not when any Tom, Dick, or Harry can walk down the road and catch one.” Mycroft did not answer verbally, but his expression was eloquent. A giggle escaped Greg before he could clamp down on it, which morphed into a proper laugh when Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Alright, I’m sorry. I’m sure the pigeons served here weren’t caught whilst eating discarded sausage rolls in Hyde Park.”

Mycroft’s sigh had a distinctly long-suffering air about it. “They’re not the same kind of pigeon. Goodness knows what those are carrying.”

“Probably not as much as the average reception class based on how many bugs Maddie brings home.” Setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate, Greg leant forward in his chair lightly, and, in a hushed voice, said, “Moving away from pigeons, can I ask you something? You can tell me to piss off if you want to, but it’s not something I want to ask Gary or Joel.” There was a knowing glint in Mycroft’s eyes when he smiled, and Greg felt his cheeks heat in response. “I know it sounds daft, but is the third date too early to try to move things into the bedroom? Neither of us is after anything serious, but I don’t want him thinking I’m some sort of hussy, either. It’s not like we’re twenty five anymore.”

"Not at all,” Mycroft replied with fond amusement. “I understand that the third date, in fact, is generally agreed to be the gateway."

“We’ve kissed, but neither of us wanted to draw attention to ourselves, so we’ve been very well-behaved so far. That won’t be a problem at home, so I suppose we’ll see what happens.”

"The world is an increasingly liberal place."

Greg snorted. “I’ve had a date with a fascist, Mycroft. I thought those fuckers went out with Hitler, so it’s not that liberal.”

Arching his left eyebrow, Mycroft chuckled. "Was his wanting to meet at Wetherspoons not a hint?"

“Yeah, I really should’ve known better. Consider that my lesson learnt,” Greg replied, grinning. “What about you, then? I’ve never known you talk about a husband or partner, so do you, you know, go on dates?”

"Alas, no,” Mycroft replied, patently amused. “It simply isn't viable, for a man in my position. Shagging one's way through one's colleagues is poor form, sleeping with the lower ranks suggests exploitation of one if not both parties, the enemy is simply out of the question, the Antheas are too valuable, and anyone else would be a security hazard."

Greg almost inhaled the last of his wine. “Yeah, well, when you put it like that. You deserve someone to look after you, though. All that pressure on your own can’t be good for you.”

"I'm sure it isn't and I do, but there is a very definite lack of candidates."

Something deep inside Greg went ‘thud’, and his crush managed to work itself out of the box he’d locked it away in, even with that extra padlock. Mycroft wasn’t interested in him and he wasn’t going to be interested in him, so telling his friend that there was a candidate he’d apparently overlooked sitting right in front of him would be a spectacularly bad idea, even with having polished off most of a bottle of wine as an excuse. “One day, maybe,” he said instead, relieved when his voice came out level. “If I come across someone decent, I’ll send him your way.”

A half-smile touched Mycroft’s lips. "I have very particular taste in men; merely 'decent' would be inadequate." He swirled the remaining water in his glass, the movement almost hypnotic. "The man for me must measure up to exacting standards."

“So he should, too. You deserve the best.” Greg pulled his line of sight up from Mycroft’s fingers to his face and necked the last of his wine.

“As do you,” Mycroft replied, and the half-smile that had been lingering for the last few minutes widened into a proper smile. It was warm, reaching his eyes in a way that restored some of the years that his rapidly receding hairline had stolen.

A comfortable silence passed and Greg decided that he was not ready for the night to be over. Time with Mycroft had always been at a premium, and Greg had always taken any opportunity to prolong it. “Have you got time for dessert?”

"Naturally.”

“I wonder if they still do that tiramisu?” Greg asked hopefully.

Mycroft glanced at a passing waitress who, seemingly summoned by magic, stopped halfway to another table and headed in their direction. "Let's find out.”

An hour later, the same waitress returned to remind them that closing time was approaching, and politely ask them to stop yakking and clear out so she could go home. Not that she phrased it quite like that, of course, but Greg wasn’t a detective inspector for nothing.

Dessert had been followed by coffee with those little mint chocolates Greg was so fond of, and that was followed by brandy. Greg finished the last of his - third - brandy, with half an eye on Mycroft as he raised his glass and drank slowly. It was an act of sheer willpower for Greg to wrench his eyes away from Mycroft’s throat as his muscles worked to swallow. He’s not interested, he reminded himself forcefully. In need of a distraction, Greg stood up and pocketed his phone. “Thank you for a lovely night.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Mycroft replied, stepping around the table.

Their arms brushed as Mycroft smoothed down the front of his trousers, and Greg’s face flushed. It’s the brandy, he told himself. Just the brandy. As he moved, his lack of adherence to Mycroft’s advice to double-knot his shoelaces gave his face an excuse for being bright red: he trod on a free range shoelace and would have fallen into the neighbouring table had it not been for Mycroft’s quick reflexes. “Fucking hell, that was close!” he gasped once he realised that he wasn’t going to be face-planting the table, and turned his head to face Mycroft. “My knight in shining armour.”

"Good grief, I hope not,” replied, audibly amused. His hands lingered on Greg’s hips for a moment longer. “A knighthood would be more or less tolerable, I suppose, but not armour. It's impossible to sneak even in lamellar armour. Oiled leather would be quieter, but still hardly suited to stealth. Not to mention the inconvenience and the smell."

Greg laughed delightedly and dropped into a crouch to tie his laces, making sure that they were tied securely this time. Looking up at Mycroft, with a concerted effort to ignore the long line of his legs, Greg asked. “Know a lot about sneaking, do you?”

"I know a lot about a lot of things. That is a significant component of my job,” Mycroft replied with a definite glint in his eyes.

“And very good at it you are, too.” Greg stood up and jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. “Are you going to let me pay for this?”

Apparently as amused as always at this part of their fortnightly routine, Mycroft smirked. "The bill has already been settled.”

Responding to Mycroft’s playful mood in kind, Greg pouted. “Well, I can transfer the money to you, then.”

"You will find that challenging without my bank details."

“Not when you give me them I won’t.” Taking the opportunity presented by having Mycroft standing so close, Greg prodded him in the ribs. “We’ve been having dinner together for nearly ten years; surely you can let me pay for a few.”

Straight faced but with a bright sparkle in his eyes, Mycroft replied, "It seems unlikely."

Greg huffed dramatically, giving serious - and unwise - consideration to asking Sherlock for a favour. “One day, Mycroft.”

Evidently pleased and amused, Mycroft all but twinkled. “We shall see.”

Chapter Text

July 2015

Twenty minutes late, Greg hurriedly made his way across the restaurant to where Mycroft was patiently waiting for him. “Sorry I’m late. Can you believe the sodding lift at the station broke down? It had to be the one I was in, didn’t it?” He lowered himself into his customary seat with a sigh. “Not a bad thing it did, though, because the tube station was being cordoned off and there were three lads in handcuffs. Knowing my luck, I’d’ve been dragged into it if I’d been there when it all cracked off.”

"They have already been transferred into my section, so you would not." Mycroft lifted the bottle of wine from its cooler and filled their glasses. "Was it expenses, or overtime?"

Frowning at the seeming non sequitur, Greg replied, “Neither: it looked like terrorist activity to me.”

"It was supposed to: it was counterintelligence. It was also not what I was asking about."

Greg wracked his brain, thinking about their most recent text conversation to see if he’d missed something that might explain what Mycroft was talking about, but still came up empty-handed. “You’ve lost me.”

"There is a smudge of ink on your jaw. Expenses, or overtime?"

“Bugger!” Greg picked up a spoon and attempted to use it as a mirror. It wasn’t particularly effective, but it was just about good enough for him to see a sizeable smudge of black on his left jaw. “Overtime. They’ve forced us online for expenses. I will show up on time and not wearing food or ink one day.”

"Shall I ask a waiter for a damp cloth?” Mycroft asked, amused. “You could also attend to the ketchup on your lapel, then."

Hoping that his face didn’t look as red as it felt, Greg attempted to inspect the damage by looking down. It was, of course, an exercise in futility, and Greg cursed. “Bollocks!”

There was a scandalised sound from the impeccably - and undoubtedly expensively - turned out woman at the next table, but Mycroft quelled her with an arched eyebrow, his demeanor as warm as an arctic breeze.

The woman turned away immediately, but Greg, who was by now impervious to Antarctica’s occasional appearances at his dinners with Mycroft, smiled resignedly. “You wouldn’t believe I survived three days in court this week, would you? And a press conference.”

"Of course I would,” Mycroft replied, stepping in to summon a waiter when Greg’s attempt fell flat on its face. “It explains your fatigue and difficulty concentrating completely."

“So, how are you?” Greg looked Mycroft over appraisingly. He’d developed finely turned senses when it came to how well Mycroft was looking after himself, and he did not see anything to raise alarm. “You’re looking well.”

"I am well, thank you. We obtained a good result from rather ticklish multi-party talks over the last few weeks."

Knowing better than to ask Mycroft questions about his work, Greg was just glad to know that all was well in Mycroft-land. “Oh, before I forget,” he said, bending to reach his leather work bag, “I’m under strict orders to give you this.”

He handed over an A4 painting done by Maddie at nursery, which was a mess of bright colours, lumps, splodges, and random flecks of glitter. She’d told him that it was Mycroft; Greg was taking her word for it, though he doubted Mycroft had ever owned a yellow suit with purple spots in his life. He also had actual legs and not feet that attached directly to his arse.

Taking the painting with a warm smile, Mycroft said, “Her brushwork is coming along nicely.”

Proud of his youngest daughter, Greg watched as Mycroft put the painting in his briefcase with great care. “It took me three washes to get the damned paint out of her hair. Three, Mycroft, and I still found it on her bloody pillow. It’s the tight curls, I think, and her hair’s so thick.” For all that the girls had only actually met him a handful of times, they were both very taken with him, and Greg had always been delighted that Mycroft seemed to return the sentiment.

Mycroft laughed. "She is a constant delight. Do thank her for me."

“I will,” Greg replied, relaxing into his chair, the lingering stress of a hellacious day starting to dissipate. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week. Three days of that bastard of a defence barrister trying to rip me and my case to pieces, and I’m soooo ready for some good food and better company. ”

"As have I. You did very well in your press conference yesterday."

“Do you think? I didn’t think it had gone badly ‘til I got home and saw I had mushed-up banana on my tie.”

"It looked like an artistic design. Brioni do something very similar, in fact." Mycroft sipped his wine. "Your handling of the fool from the Spectator was masterly."

“That’s quite the compliment coming from you,” Greg replied, grinning.

Mycroft inclined his head. "It was intended to be."

“Thank you.” Greg took a moment to savour the fine wine and mentally weighed up whether to share what was on his mind or not. Deciding that it might give Mycroft a laugh, he leant in and lowered his voice like a man about to share a state secret. “You know that bloke I had a date with last week? The blond accountant I thought was a bit weird but not weird enough to say no to another date with?”

"I know of him, certainly. Why?"

“Right, well, I went round to his for dinner on Monday, and he…I still can’t believe this. There were boxes and boxes of cream cakes in his fridge, and the kitchen floor was covered in plastic sheeting like they sometimes use on crime scenes.” Greg lowered his voice further. “He only wanted me to throw the cream cakes at him while he was spread-eagled on the floor! Can you believe it? It’s a shame me and Daniel had no chemistry, because he was a fucking dream compared to the rest of the blokes I’ve met.”

There was a peal of genuine laughter from Mycroft, and something glowed deep inside Greg.
"That one certainly sounds interesting," Mycroft replied, patently richly entertained. "Though, as kinks go, I suppose it's innocuous enough."

“There was cream and jam everywhere. It definitely added something to the, ah, oral experience, though.”

Another rare laugh was Greg’s reward for his candour. "Yes, I imagine it would.”

Acutely aware that he was probably grinning like an idiot, the warmly appreciative looks that Mycroft was giving him meant that Greg didn’t give a flying fuck. He was so content that it was only when he took a drink of his wine that he realised that there were bubbles tickling his mouth that was most definitely not their usual syrah. So much of their routine when they met for dinner was now tradition, and one of those traditions was that Greg was invariably late, and Mycroft had always ordered for him and had a bottle of wine waiting on the table. Quite how he had missed that he was drinking champagne he didn’t know. The ice bucket beside their table really should have been an immediate give away, but he supposed that being on autopilot and seeing what his mind expected him to see would go a fair way to explaining it.

“What’s the champagne in aid of?” he asked after a long moment. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

“Your resounding victory over Marrascaud, of course. It isn't every day one puts a murderous jewel thief behind bars, let alone with a whole life sentence."

“Were you following it?” Greg asked, a warm glow taking root at the thought of Mycroft taking such an interest in his work. “I thought the defence barrister was going to swear at me at one point.”

"I've had a feed since day one; you were superb."

“That means a lot,” Greg replied, hoping that his voice didn’t sound as gruff as he thought it did. He raised his glass, hoping to cover his odd emotional moment. “To justice and friends.”

Mycroft raised his own glass. “Congratulations.”

Greg’s eyes caught on Mycroft’s long, dexterous fingers and, for a moment, Greg found himself unable to look at anything else. They were long and slender in contrast to his own blunt, stubby fingers, and considering what Greg had been getting up to when he was alone in his bedroom recently, it did not take much to set his mind on a dangerous path. Mycroft slowly lowering his glass was enough to break Greg’s reverie, and, hoping that his cheeks weren’t as hot as they felt, he grasped at figurative straws for something to say. “Is that a new suit?”

"Yes, it is," Mycroft replied, audibly mildly surprised that Greg had noticed. "Do you approve?"

“Oh, yeah.” Mycroft was always impeccably turned out, but something about this particular outfit was grabbing Greg’s attention. He had no idea what, mind; all Greg knew about clothes was that they generally worked better if they went on in the right order, and that unintentional holes were a bad thing. “I wish I could carry a suit like you do.”

"You don't need to; you have advantages I lack. You still look like a model when you're dragged dripping from the Thames beside my bedraggled wet crow of a brother." He smiled, a lightness to his expression that Greg still felt privileged to be allowed to see. "Though it would be my tailor's best ever Hannukah present if you would allow him to dress you."

Greg laughed. “You’ve got a very funny idea about models: I’m fifty and normally covered in glitter, jam, or banana, and if I’m having a really bad day there’s someone else’s blood as well. Sherlock really does look like a wet crow, though, doesn’t he? He even caws like one, too.”

"He does. Or possibly a wet cat."

Greg found himself halfway between disappointed and relieved that Mycroft had let the subject of his apparently model-like looks drop, but there was an odd squeeing coming from the tenuously locked box at the back of his mind. “He told me to piss off last time I told him he prowls around like an angry cat.” Greg reached for the champagne and topped up their glasses with the last of it. “Speaking of prowling, has Chloë caught her prey yet?”

"She will catch him precisely when she means to; like all the best hunters, she sets her lure and waits for her prey to come to her." Mycroft smiled faintly. "He still has no idea."

Greg raised his glass. “Here’s to hoping he catches on soon.”

"Oh, no,” Mycroft chuckled, “that would disrupt her plan. Here's hoping that he walks all unaware into her trap."

“Should we be raising a glass to your success with those talks you mentioned before we run out of champers?”

"Good heavens, no! Those talks were extremely secret and officially never happened; we absolutely mustn't celebrate it."

“The secret’s safe with me,” Greg promised, miming zipping his lips. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw a waiter approaching their table and watched hopefully. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” The food was indeed destined for their table, and Greg tried not to look too eager as the waiter efficiently delivered their food. “I’d do this a few times a week if we could.”

"We can certainly meet more often than fortnightly, if you like."

Excited and surprised, Greg looked up from his plate of terribly posh something that tasted like something that might be fish. “Are you sure you’re not too busy?”

"Too busy for you? Certainly not."

“Dinner next week, then?” Greg asked, absolutely delighted. He was probably grinning like an idiot, but he was too happy to care. He’d been cherishing his time with Mycroft for over ten years, and now he was finally getting more of it.

"Yes. Chloë will deal with my diary, and I will let you know when and where, yes?"

Greg nodded emphatically. Mycroft could have told him that the only time he could squeeze in was arse stupid o’clock on Sunday mornings and Greg would have been delighted. “That sounds great,” he said happily, but a thought occurred to him and he paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You know I don’t expect dinner out like this every time we meet, right. It’s you I want to see, not a fancy restaurant. You’re welcome at the flat for dinner anytime, and there are plenty of nice places dotted around.” He nudged Mycroft’s left foot playfully. “I wouldn’t dream of subjecting you to the horrors of McDonalds.”

Mycroft smiled, radiating contentment in a way that Greg very rarely saw. "This is at least partly a treat for me."

“I want to treat you one day. I can’t afford mega fancy, but I’m not exactly poor. The way you’ve looked after me, especially since things went to shit with Jo, it’s the least I could do.”

"Perhaps a takeaway from Joel's Kitchen?"

“Yeah, that sounds perfect.” Greg felt a flash of pride at the mention of his brother-in-law. From getting caught up in London’s gang culture and being convicted of manslaughter in the early-eighties, he had become one of Croydon’s most successful men, with a renowned Caribbean cuisine cafe. “Did I tell you he’s being awarded an MBE? It’s for all the community centre and school work he’s doing on gang and knife crime.”

"You did, and I am still delighted on his behalf. It is richly deserved,” Mycroft replied, apparently unbothered that it was actually the fifth - sixth if he counted the text message - time that Greg had told him.

“They still want to meet you, you know,” Greg told Mycroft with a playful wink. “I keep telling them that you’d come out in a rash if you set foot in Croydon, but they’re not having it.”

"You could at least explain the security concerns,” Mycroft replied, amused.

“I tried, but they think I’m bullshitting. Well, that side of the family do. My dad knew someone who had some links with your lot back in the sixties so my parents get it, I think. I did have to show them a photo of you to convince Dad you weren’t a reappearance of my imaginary friend, though.”

Mycroft arched an expressive eyebrow. "When did you acquire a photograph of me, precisely?"

Shifting in his seat, Greg hoped that he didn’t look too shifty. “Remember when you found me squatting at Sherlock’s the night I left Jo for the last time? Well, I might’ve kinda nicked one Sherlock had squirrelled away.”

Mycroft rewarded him with another laugh. "Oh, dear. Sherlock usually keeps the bad ones." He shook his head. "I shall see what can be done; we can't have your family thinking you're delusional."

“We could take a picture together now,” Greg suggested hopefully. “You looking all dapper in your new suit, and me with most of the ink off my chin.”

"Or you could use one of the official ones,"

“Yeah, no. I want one with the man who’s become one of the most important people in my life, not a civil service mugshot.”

"Outside, then, after dinner. This really isn't the sort of place for selfies.” Mycroft paused and Greg clamped down on the urge to ask if he was aware of the fact that he had just said ‘selfie’. "I hope that you realise that you are also one of the most important people in my life. You have been for some time."

Stunned, Greg floundered briefly. “That’s good to know,” he said after a long moment, not attempting to restrain his smile. “For a self-proclaimed antisocial bastard, you don’t half make a cracking friend.” To distract himself from what else Mycroft had said, Greg focused on the most refined man he’d ever met uttering something as inane as ‘selfie’ and cracked a smile. “You just said selfie without shuddering. I’m impressed.”

Mycroft laughed. "I can say a great many words without shuddering."

“The first time I said it around you, you twitched.” Greg reached for his glass, only to find it empty. He diverted his hand towards the bottle of what was doubtlessly ridiculously expensive spring water, and tried not to worry about why they were paying several pounds for something that they could get from a tap. “Not just a little twitch, either; it was like I’d told you we were having used cat litter for dinner.”

"Well, yes. It is an atrocious word."

“Little bit, yeah,” Greg conceded. He glanced at the adjacent table where the diners were being served with plates of some sort of frou-frou food, and was suddenly ravenous. “What have you ordered me this time? The starter was gorgeous.”

"Chateaubriand with bâtonnets de pomme de terre frites.”

Greg hadn’t understood why people found French sexy until he’d met Mycroft, but something about it caused definite stirrings that Greg tried his best to ignore. “Steak and chips. Awesome.”

A pleased gleam shone from Mycroft’s eyes and Greg found himself briefly wondering if there might be some sort of reciprocation of feelings on Mycroft’s part, but he dismissed the thought before it was fully formed. After all, if Mycroft Holmes wanted something, Mycroft Holmes took it. He didn’t dither around and he certainly would not have encouraged Greg to go and shag other men.

"Tell me, have you worked with DI Lawrence yet?" Mycroft asked after a long moment, breaking Greg out of his spiralling thoughts.

“Yeah, unfortunately. I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but…” Greg frowned to himself, struggling to pull his thoughts into something coherent. “He’s got some...problematic views, and he doesn’t try to hide them which makes me think there’s something dodgy in his past. I don’t trust someone with views like that. We serve the whole community, not just the bits we’re part of, and we can’t do that if we’re prejudiced tossers,” he realised that his voice had turned into a growl and consciously relaxed it. “He’s got no place in modern policing.”

Mycroft hummed. "You understand that I would not dream of interfering in purely internal police matters, of course."

Though Mycroft’s tone was bland, Greg had known the other man for long enough to know how to read between the lines and hear what he wasn’t saying. What he wasn’t saying was that DI Lawrence was deeply dodgy, and the fact that Mycroft knew of him meant that he was dodgy in a way that was getting MI5’s attention. “I’ve been reporting him, but Internal Affairs said this stuff takes time. Between him not wanting any more women on his team because they’re ‘too emotional’ and ‘maternity leave waiting to happen’, and his comments about Whittard using the women’s locker room, I’m hoping the bigwigs’ll have enough ammunition to get rid of him.” Greg frowned. It had been at least a couple of months now, but nothing had happened at all beyond emails confirming that IA had received his complaints. “I’m pretty sure he’s got racist leanings, too, because after he saw the photo of Leah and Maddie on my desk he asked if I’m their ‘real dad’ and if it bothered me that they didn’t look anything like me. Leah’s always looked more like their mum, but Maddie’s my double, so I was so sure he was on about skin colour. The way he said it didn’t give me enough to work with, though.”

"He has an interesting career history. His transfer arrangements in particular are quite fascinating." Mycroft toyed with the stem of his water glass. "Perhaps he should be embraced. One never knows what will emerge over a pint that would otherwise go unnoticed."

Greg’s mind was in overdrive, putting his suspicions together with what Mycroft was telling him in his sleekly circumspect Whitehall predator way. “I’ve heard rumours about his transfer. Something about a Deputy Chief Constable’s involvement with one of the dodgier Catholic bishops and blackmail.” Greg smiled. “Grindr was mentioned; I don’t suppose you’ve seen either of them on there?”

"I couldn't possibly comment."

Pausing for a moment to make sure that he wasn’t getting carried away with himself, Greg looked Mycroft in the eye. If he was right, and Mycroft was raising this because he knew that this bloke was too well connected for Internal Affairs to make anything stick, he was going to have to be very, very careful. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

"Yes." Mycroft sipped his water. "Best handled from within, however, I think. My service could take steps if needs be, but I suspect that would not precisely bolster public confidence in their first line of defence."

“Yeah, no, we can handle this,” Greg replied, clamping down on his rising fury. There wasn’t much he hated more than bent coppers, and he’d be damned if he was going to let another service get dragged into cleaning up the Met’s mess. “How high does this thing go? Internal Affairs must be compromised, and if he really is being protected from on high I don’t rate my chances of getting the DAC on board.”

"High enough to warrant this conversation." Mycroft drew the tip of his left index around the rim of his glass. "You will, of course, be protected from any adverse... fall-out."

Despite knowing that Mycroft would not knowingly allow him to come to harm, Greg was relieved to hear it. “If I give you names, can you tell me if I can trust them? I’m not getting into something like this on my own.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, and, angry or not, Greg would never not find that sexy. "I may be able to indicate."

“Pryke, Dyson, Whittard, and Kapoor,” Greg said immediately, keeping his voice low. He’d known Gideon Pryke since the early nineties when the older DI had taken Greg under his wing, and he did not trust another police officer more. Dyson, Whittard, and Kapoor had all been on Greg’s team at one time or another, and he had no doubts about their integrity or that they would want to see DI Lawrence get his comeuppance.

Greg took Mycroft’s total lack of reaction to mean that they were in the clear, and breathed out a sigh of relief. “I -- thanks for bringing this up. It’s bastards like him that give us all bad names.” Greg fiddled with the stem of his water glass and sagged in his seat. “Any ideas how I should go about making sure something actually gets done about it if we find what you think we’re going to find?”

"I must introduce you to Lord Rufford one of these days. Fascinating old chap." Greg blinked at the apparent non sequitur, and Mycroft kindly waited for him to join the dots. When he didn't, Mycroft went on. "You might have heard of him as Detective Chief Superintendent Sullivan."

Now, that was a name Greg recognised. “Oh, him. He’s a Special Branch legend! I heard he took down a ring of bent MI5 handlers single-handedly back in the sixties, and came out of it without even losing his hat. Do you think he’ll be able to help?”

As Greg might have expected, Mycroft failed to provide a straight answer. "He is remarkably tenacious in taking matters of interest through the House. An incisive man in an inquiry despite his age."

A flutter of excitement at the thought of meeting one of his heroes was not enough for Greg to shake his anger at having it confirmed that there was a dodgy copper in his division and the higher ups were actively protecting him. “What a fucking mess,” he said, feeling every one of his fifty years. “I’m assuming the problems didn’t start at Sandford?”

"I couldn't possibly comment."

So that'd be a no, then. Greg sighed and hoped that he didn’t look as deflated as he felt. If Mycroft was telling him something that he really shouldn’t be, it made sense that he was keeping it to the bare minimum, but Greg still wished that he had more to go on. Fortunately, years of friendship had equipped Greg with the start of a Mycroft-to-normal-folk translation guide, and one of the first things he’d learnt was that ‘I couldn’t possibly comment’ was effectively Mycroft saying ‘yep’. “Thanks for bringing it up. We can handle this”

"Greg,” Mycroft said after a long moment of silence, his tone demanding full and immediate attention. He waited until Greg was looking him in the eye and continued, "I have brought this to you because you are the best and I trust you to unravel it. It does not diminish your achievement in securing Marrascaud's conviction."

Greg formulated and dismissed four responses before deciding that it was not a reflection of the thousands of honest, hard working officers or support staff up and down the country, and raised his glass of water in toast. “Here’s to getting rid of a few more corrupt bastards, then.”

"The triumph of law and order,” Mycroft replied, reciprocating the gesture.

“Cheers.” Mentally hitting the reset button, Greg smiled when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned hopefully in the direction of the approaching waiter. Their usual waiter carefully set their plates on the table with practiced, efficient movements and quirked a vaguely amused smile in Greg’s direction. Confused, Greg glanced around as the waiter was placing a plate of what looked like lamb in front of Mycroft and caught three toffs looking longingly in his direction. It was at that point that it occurred to him that it was not the first time that he had noticed this phenomenon. “Mycroft,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice, “why does my plate get so many envious looks?”

"Because nobody else is having what you're having."

“That’s daft. Why don’t they just…” Greg drifted off, general observations of the restaurant and the many plates of frou-frou food he had seen over the years drifting across his mind’s eye. “Steak and chips isn’t on the menu, is it?”

"No," Mycroft replied serenely.

Greg laughed delightedly. When Mycroft twinkled at him, Greg reached across the table and squeezed his hand, using his free hand to raise his fork so that the neighbouring diners could all see a chip covered in peppercorn sauce. “Best friend ever.”

Everything about Mycroft’s bearing and demeanour told Greg that he was massively entertained, it left him feeling almost giddy. He’d frequently felt guilty for what he felt was taking advantage of Mycroft’s generosity with their fortnightly - soon to become weekly - meals, but Mycroft was clearly getting something out of it. “Maybe they need to revise the menu, because at least three of the poshos in here would be eating it.”

"I'm sure that the executive chef has been informed."

Greg giggled which should have been mortifying at his age, but the look in Mycroft’s eyes was warm and not at all derogatory, so Greg decided that he just didn’t care. “What did I do to deserve you?”

"Perhaps you were Vlad the Impaler in a past life."

“Totally worth it,” Greg replied with a grin, and paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Not because you make a posh restaurant cook me steak and chips, either.”

"Very posh steak and chips," Mycroft replied mildly, with a playful glint in his eyes.

Feeding off the energy between them, Greg winked. “It sounds posher when you say it in French.” He sampled the aforementioned very posh steak and allowed his eyes to flutter slightly. He had no idea what the hell he was thinking, but when he saw Mycroft’s fleeting heated look, Greg felt awash with a mix of want, hope, and trepidation. He floundered for a moment as he crammed his feelings for Mycroft back into the box at the back of his mind and added another lock. Grasping for something to say that wasn’t ‘take me to bed and ruin me’, he plastered a smile on and declared, “That’s hands down the best steak I’ve ever had.”

Eyes intent on Greg’s and radiating pleasure, Mycroft said, "Then I shall ensure that you continue to be served chateaubriand.”

“You’re the best,” Greg declared happily, almost light headed on the atmosphere. “I’m definitely winning tonight: more time with you, the best food, and I get to go after a bent copper.”

"One aims to please.”

Mycroft was straight-faced but Greg had known the other man for long enough to be able to see the happiness in him, and that set something deep inside him glowing. He didn’t know what had changed recently, but something had and he had every intention of enjoying it for as long as it lasted.

Chapter Text

Greg stepped out of the shower, reached for his favourite towel - which happened to be bright pink and sparkly, but it was big, fluffy, and held the heat from the radiator beautifully - and made quick work of drying himself and spraying his armpits with Right Guard. Using his hand to clear the bathroom mirror, he eyed himself appraisingly as he towelled his hair. He couldn’t see a massive difference personally, but Daniel had promised him that the subtle style change showed the silver over the grey, so Greg was taking his word for it. He reached for the new bottle of hair product and replayed the hairdresser’s instructions as he depressed the plunger, pausing briefly before applying it to make sure that there wasn’t too much in his hand. It wasn’t that using hair products was totally alien to him, regardless of what his eldest thought, but the last thing he needed when he was intending to seduce Mycroft Holmes was hair made greasy or crunchy by too much gloop.

Once dry, Greg wrapped the towel around his waist and darted across the hall into his bedroom. The girls were in the living room with Sherrinford, Greg’s twenty year old nephew who was always glad of babysitting money to supplement his student loan, and, if the laughter was anything to go by, it sounded like they were going to have a fun evening. Greg eyed his bed, upon which his clothes for the evening were laid out, and made a concerted effort to cut his overthinking off at the knees. He still had misgivings about the shirt, which was far too close in colour to Sherlock’s purple shirt for his liking, but Daniel and the House of Fraser shop assistant had both sworn blind that the colour worked on him. He briefly considered swapping it for one of his old faithfuls, but Daniel’s “he won’t be able to resist you” echoed through his mind, so he reached for it with a sigh.

Greg frowned down at his hands when he realised that he was failing to get the first button into its buttonhole, and found that they were trembling so much that he couldn’t grip the small buttons. For the third time in the last hour, Greg took a deep breath and replayed the memory of Daniel’s arched eyebrow and emphatic “You’ve been messing around with online dating when you’ve got a man who looks at you like that? Are you mad?” when he’d been shown the photo of Greg and Mycroft taken outside Bertram’s. It did the trick: the shaking of his hands subsided enough that he was able to use them again, and a minute later Greg glanced down and was relieved to find that the buttons were indeed in the correct holes. Next, he picked up his new pair of black Tom Ford boxer briefs. He had absolutely no idea why he needed designer pants, but Daniel, evidently having seen Greg’s expression when he’d caught sight of the price tag, had patted Greg’s shoulder and declared that they were a good luck gift because there was no way that he was sending Greg off to seduce a man who dressed like Mycroft whilst wearing three-year-old Marks and Spencer Y-fronts. Smiling at the memory, Greg stepped into them, and had to admit that the fabric felt good against his skin. His new trousers, which reportedly did very nice things for his arse, followed in short order, and fitted well enough that he didn’t need a belt.

There was a knock at his bedroom door when he sat on the edge of his bed to put his socks and shoes on. “Come in,” he called. Having been expecting Maddie to fly into the room for a cuddle, it came as a surprise when Leah’s head appeared around the door. At thirteen, she was far brighter and smarter than he had been at her age, and he couldn’t be prouder of the maturity and compassion with which she had handled the divorce and his coming out. “What’s up, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I thought so.” Leah stepped into the room with a comb in one hand and her hairdryer in the other. “You’re not going on a date with your hair fluffy again,” she declared, brandishing her comb at him.

“I’m not going on a date.” Greg hated to lie to her, but didn't want to get her hopes up by telling her that he was meeting Mycroft, either. Leah and Maddie were as taken with Mycroft as Greg was, even if in a very different way.

“Of course you are; you only take so long in the shower if you’re hoping to pull, and that shirt, Dad. Wow.”

“Do you like it? I still think it’s a bit...purple.”

“You look a-ma-zing, but your hair’ll go all fluffy if you let it dry naturally.” She plugged the hairdryer in and waved it in his direction. “Trust me; I didn’t get my hair looking this good without knowing what I’m talking about.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah, good point,” he conceded, taking in her latest hairstyle, which, it had to be said, was a masterpiece. In contrast to her mum, who had been having her hair chemically straightened for as long as Greg had known her, Leah was firmly of the opinion that the bigger and curlier the better when it came to her own styles. “Right, do your worst.”

Leah smiled happily and got to work, wielding the comb like a pro. “You’re going to knock him dead, Dad,” she said, raising her voice over the loud whine of the hairdryer. “Surely you’ve got to meet Mr Right one of these times.”

“I hope so,” Greg replied, not willing to confess that one of his Mr not-Rights had talked him into trying it on with Mycroft over lunch, and subsided into an anxious silence as Leah worked. His hair was longer than it had been a few months ago, having recovered well from the buzzcut he’d needed after Maddie brought nits home from nursery for the third time in six weeks, but it was still short enough that it only took Leah ninety seconds to dry it properly. “So, will I do?” he asked when Leah stood back and gave him a satisfied look.

“Yeah, not bad for an old man,” she replied with a mischievous grin. “I don’t know what you put in your hair, but it’s good.”

“I don’t know, either, but it’s in the bathroom if you want a nosey.” Greg stood up from his bed, winced when his knees cracked, and pulled Leah into a hug. Much to Greg’s delight, she seemed to have outgrown the not-wanting-hugs phase and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

A knock on the bedroom door was swiftly followed by his nephew’s face appearing around the edge of the door. “Are you expecting a taxi, Uncle Greg? Because there’s a proper fancy car waiting outside.”

“No. I don’t think so, anyway,” Greg replied, turning to find his phone. He had apparently missed a call from Mycroft, which his friend had followed with a text which read, I’m afraid that we will need to change venue. I shall send a car for you. Greg cleared his throat and hoped that his cheeks were not as hot as they felt. “Oh, no, that’s right; I did. My mate’s set up an executive taxi service, you see, so I’m just putting a bit of business his way.”

“Yeah, right,” Leah scoffed, a knowing glint in her eyes as she grinned at him. “Tell Mycroft I said good luck in his new business, yeah?”

Having no dignified way of extricating himself from the conversation, Greg did what any other man would do when facing down his too-clever-by-half teenage daughter: he pocketed his phone and fled for the sanctuary of Mycroft’s car.

Chapter Text

Sitting in the back of a fancy car without a clue where he was going had become almost normalised over the course of his friendship with Mycroft, but it was never something that he was going to get used to. In the twenty minutes on the road so far, Greg had vacillated between watching London pass through the window in the hope of distracting himself from the mild panic at the thought of what was coming, and babbling nervously at the driver. Over the years, Greg had met many of Mycroft’s drivers, but his favourites were Barbara, who hailed from Royston Vasey, and Sheridan, whose origins remained a mystery. It was Sheridan driving tonight, and if the younger man thought Greg’s almost incomprehensible babbling was strange he was kind enough not to say so. By the time the car was pulling up, Greg had talked to Sheridan about everything from Arsenal’s recent performance in the Premier League to the price of underpants, and he suspected that Sheridan would be glad to see the back of him tonight.

Greg looked out of the window and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He knew most areas within central London thanks to his work, some more than most, but this wasn’t an area he was overly familiar with. It was a mixed area, with both residential and commercial properties, but he didn’t remember there being many restaurants out this way. His confusion grew when Sheridan got out of the car and opened Greg’s door.

“What’s going on?” Greg asked as he closed the door behind him.

“You’re meeting Mr Holmes for dinner,” Sheridan smiled. “He doesn’t actually live in restaurants, whatever his baby brother says.”

Eyes widening, Greg looked around frantically, half expecting Jeremy Beadle to appear from behind a car. “I’m going to Mycroft’s house?”

“You’re here,” Sheridan replied with a smile as he climbed a few steps to a normal-looking black door.

Greg was frozen to the spot. He’d often wondered about Mycroft’s home life, but after a decade of friendship without so much as a mention of the other man’s home, Greg had long since decided that his curiosity would be insatiated. He was wrong, apparently. The door Sheridan had opened was sandwiched between a tailor’s shop called Kingsman and Pierre’s Bistro, an eatery that looked far too frou-frou for Greg’s taste, but what struck him was how normal it all looked. Whenever he’d imagined what Mycroft’s home was like, there had been lethal perimeter fences, man-eating guard dogs, and at least a dozen armed guards at the front door.

“You’re not going to find him out here,” Sheridan said with patient amusement, snapping Greg out of his musings.

“Yeah, sorry,” Greg replied, hurrying across the pavement and up the steps. “It’s just so…normal.”

Sheridan ushered Greg inside with a hum and, once Greg had crossed the threshold, pointed up the stairs. “He’s expecting you.”

It was half way up the stairs that it occurred to Greg that they might just be stopping off to collect Mycroft before heading off to Betram’s as normal. After all, it couldn’t always be Greg who was running late, and it would explain why Mycroft was breaking the habit of ten years by having Greg brought to his home. He ignored his inner detective, who was shouting that this theory only explained some of the facts. It was far more preferable than the obvious alternative, which was that Mycroft was aware of what Greg was planning and wanted to be somewhere private when he let him down gently. Even thinking about that possibility was enough to leave Greg feeling queasy.

“You need to go all the way up, Greg,” Sheridan encouraged from the bottom of the stairs, and it was only then that Greg realised that he had come to a stop two thirds of the way up.

Flushing hotly, Greg pulled himself together and took the remaining stairs two at a time. Before he could raise his hand to knock, the smart blue door opened, revealing Mycroft Holmes. It was not, however, Mycroft like Greg had ever seen him, and Greg felt his breath leave him in a whoosh as he took in the russet jumper that the other man was wearing. His eyes seemed to get stuck for a moment, and it took a full brain reboot to get them moving again. Knowing full well that he looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, he looked Mycroft in the eyes and plastered on a smile. “Evening. Ready when you are,” he said, having mentally wedded himself to the theory that the car had stopped off so they could pick Mycroft up. His eyes drifted rebelliously back to Mycroft’s jumper, apparently unable to get enough of it. “That suits you.”

Mycroft smiled, and, for a moment, Greg would have sworn that Mycroft’s gaze turned appreciative. "Thank you. Do come in."

“This is lovely,” Greg said with a vague gesture at the room as he stepped in, grasping for something to say that wasn’t related to Mycroft Holmes wearing a jumper. It wasn’t that he was lying, either; the large entrance hall opened into a reception room which was the approximate size of Greg’s whole flat, equipped with graceful cabinets, a fireplace, and what Greg belatedly recognised as a large dining table, in warm-toned wood polished until it gleamed, beneath a discreet chandelier; it was every bit as understatedly elegant as Greg had imagined Mycroft’s home to be. Try as he might, however, his attention was soon pulled back to what Mycroft was wearing. It wasn’t that Greg thought his friend lived in three piece suits, per se, but the jumper made him look warm and relaxed, and Greg suddenly wanted nothing more than to snuggle up with him in front of an open fire, and that was absolutely not an image he needed in his mind’s eye at that point in time. Without his permission, Greg’s treacherous mouth took matters into its own hands when it said, “Please tell me you’re not getting changed before we go out.”

"I thought we might stay in, if you have no objections."#

Those words came as almost as much of a surprise as the jumper, and Greg briefly floundered. “I — yeah, that sounds great.” Trying not to panic at the thought that Mycroft definitely knew about his scheme, he cleared his throat. “Any chance of getting the tour? I’ve always wanted to see your natural habitat.”

Mycroft smiled, amused. "I fear you'll be disappointed; it's very ordinary."

“Please? Ten years of curiosity and all that,” Greg replied, deploying his very best puppy dog eyes.

"Far be it from me to refuse," Mycroft replied fondly, and ushered Greg in properly.

“This is exactly what I imagined your place was like,” Greg told Mycroft, his tendency for nervous rambling making itself known.

"Is it?" Mycroft asked, expression faintly quizzical. "How so?"

Not sure how to put his vague thoughts into a coherent sentence, Greg looked around properly. Granted, he had only seen a tiny bit of Mycroft’s home, but what he’d seen was enough to confirm his imaginings. “It’s elegant and traditional, like you. Gorgeous.”

"I'm glad you approve," Mycroft replied, and there was a hint of something almost tantalising about his tone that set Greg’s heart racing. "Allow me to take your jacket, and I'll show you the rest."

Moving carefully so as to avoid smacking Mycroft in the face, Greg removed his leather jacket and handed it over. Without the jacket to cover most of the very purple shirt, Greg was suddenly overcome with self-consciousness. Nervously playing with his left cuff, he found himself grasping for conversation for the second time in as many minutes. “That looks like a proper fancy tailor’s downstairs,” he blurted, and, inane as it was, Greg was just relieved that it had nothing to do with russet jumpers.

"A little too avant garde for my taste in formal-wear, but they cut and assemble well. I shall have to tell Sherlock that that shirt looks considerably better on you."

Greg’s mind stalled for a moment as that registered. “I wouldn’t say that,” he demurred, sure that his face looked more akin to a tomato than anything else. “I’ll tell Daniel you approve, though; he picked it.”

"I would," Mycroft practically purred, hanging Greg’s jacket on an actual hanger. "This way,"

Almost dazed, Greg followed, for the first time having a view of Mycroft’s arse that wasn’t obscured by a jacket or coat. “Tell me about the art?” Greg asked desperately when his eyes caught on a piece which was both classic and discreetly homoerotic. Well, at least Greg thought it looked homoerotic, but he had been somewhat obsessed with homoerotic thoughts recently.

"It's a rather eclectic assortment; pieces which caught my eye rather than a planned collection,” Mycroft replied, leading Greg into what was evidently his living room.

“You’ll have to tell me about them one day,” Greg said, ambling along behind Mycroft and doing his best not to look like he was gawping too much. The room was as generously proportioned as the reception-cum-dining-room. A massive painting on one wall above a merrily crackling open fire, the sofa and matching armchairs looked like the kind that hugged you after a hard day, and what looked like ten thousand books occupied cases made in the same warm-toned wood as the furniture in the first room lining the other walls. It had a distinctly cosy air to it, and Greg found that he wasn’t at all surprised. When he’d first met Sherlock, the little shit had described his brother as the coldest cold fish in history, but it hadn’t taken long for Greg to learn otherwise. Mycroft was a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, and, once he let you in through his defences, there was an indescribable warmth about him. Greg didn’t know how decor could fit a person, but this definitely suited Mycroft.

He crossed the room to the window and glanced out. The street below was comprised of traditional buildings and, down the road, Greg could see the steeple of St Stephen’s church. “You’ve got a lovely view. Compared with my bit of Croydon, at any rate.”

"Mm. It does not benefit from the reinforced glass, regrettably, but one must make sacrifices."

Greg turned on the spot, and, if he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn that Mycroft’s gaze was level with his arse. He grinned. “Yeah, better safe than sorry.”

"The kitchen is not terribly exciting, but it does contain the tea-making apparatus. Can I interest you in a cup?"

“I’ll never say no to a cuppa.” Oddly eager to see so rarified a creature as Mycroft engaged in domestic activities, Greg followed Mycroft back out into the hall and across to the kitchen. It was as generously proportioned as the rest of the flat, and even a first impression told him that his mother would give her right hand for this kitchen. There were two sinks, set apart, two fridges, and what looked like two distinct preparation areas, and Greg quickly decided that the previous owner must have been Jewish. Watching as Mycroft set about preparing tea, Greg propped himself against the island. “Is that one of those fancy taps?”

"'Fancy taps'?" Mycroft asked, frowning faintly until he saw where Greg was looking. "Oh, as in a geyser? No; hotbeds of Legionella, and nobody will persuade me otherwise." He put the kettle under tap to fill it. "And freshly boiled water is so much better than water kept at the boil for hours at a time. This is merely fitted with a filter."

“Does it actually make any difference if it’s filtered?” Greg asked, enjoying the view of Mycroft’s back and arse.

"Quite a considerable difference. It tastes significantly better, if nothing else."

“Anything I can do to help?”

Mycroft set the kettle boiling and prepared the tea tray. "No, thank you; I have it well in hand,” he replied, turning in time to catch Greg eyeing up his arse with a definite glint in his eyes.

Squirming, Greg looked anywhere but at Mycroft. Fortunately, help was at hand; Greg’s frantic eyes landed on a framed picture which happened to be the most recent of Maddie’s efforts. The sight of the indistinct glittery blobs hanging in Mycroft’s kitchen warmed his heart. “She’ll be thrilled when I tell her about that.”

"Wait until you see my office,” Mycroft smiled.

“Looking forward to it.” Greg had seen two of Mycroft’s offices in the past, and he had always been left with the impression that he was seeing a sanitised version of them. His home office, though, where he wasn’t constrained by civil service rules...teasing and hopeful in equal measure, Greg eyed Mycroft and asked, “Have you got a cage in there for your enemies?”

"That's what the Tower of London is for,” Mycroft replied, straight-faced.

Startled, Greg laughed. “Oh, please tell me you have.”

"I certainly have one in the White Tower." Mycroft warmed the teapot and set the tea steeping.

“Have you ever put anyone in it?” Greg asked, ambling around the kitchen curiously.

"Why on earth would I have one and not use it?"

Greg’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think you could do that shit now. Not outside of prisons, anyway.” His wandering came to a stop in front of one of the two fridge-freezers and he looked at the various takeaway menus attached to the fridge with magnets, most of which Greg recognised as gifts he’d given Mycroft after trips to the seaside with the family. “What’s your favourite?” The question played out in his mind as soon as he’d uttered the words, and, nervous as he was, a damned giggle escaped. “Your favourite takeaway, not your favourite cage. Not that there’s anything wrong with having a favourite cage, though, if that’s what you go in for,” he rambled. “Some people do, don’t they? I went to this house on a routine door to door enquiry not long after I joined CID, and this woman took me into the bedroom, and showed me the bed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as open-minded as the next bloke, but it was some sort of bondage bed with a cage underneath, and the bloke I was after was in it. He seemed happy enough, but how I got through the interview without making a right tit of myself I’ll never know.”

How long Mycroft would have let Greg talk himself around in circles for would have to remain a mystery; Mycroft’s left eyebrow twitched and his lips curled into a warm smile. When Greg paused for breath, Mycroft interposed, “I’m partial to the Reigate Square.”

That was enough to break Greg’s ever decreasing cycle of nervous rambling, and his breath left him in a whoosh. He’s going to think you’ve lost the plot. Get a fucking grip, he told himself. “Is that what we’re having for dinner?” He paused, eyes momentarily stalling on Mycroft’s jumper, until his mind caught up with his mouth. “Sorry, that was very presumptive.”

"I was planning to cook, but I can order in if you prefer." Mycroft quirked a half smile and picked up the tea tray. “Shall we?”

“And miss your cooking? Not a chance,” Greg replied, following Mycroft back to the living room.

As Mycroft bent to place the tea tray on an apothecary coffee table, Greg gestured at a display case that caught his eye. “Do you mind if I have a nosey?”

“Please do,” Mycroft smiled.

So Greg did. First was the display case, which contained an assortment of objects, many of which were undoubtedly priceless though Greg hadn’t a clue what they were. Right in the middle of the second shelf, however, was an inlaid silver snuff box which Greg had found in a Brixton charity shop several years ago and thought Mycroft might like; apparently he’d been right, and Greg felt a warm glow from deep inside. Moving on from the cabinet, Greg found photos of the girls that he’d given Mycroft over the course of their friendship dotted in with what looked like photos of his family, and the glow spread out from his core to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Next, he turned his attention to the books. He recognised some literary classics, horror and ghost stories, and a selection of what looked like religious texts, but then there were shelves of them in foreign languages which left him clueless. As his eyes got to the end of their current row, Greg’s gaze landed on Snape’s Anatomy Of An Horse and his face was overtaken by a beaming smile. He remembered the day he’d found that volume in a charity shop well, and it was the first time he’d given Mycroft a random gift. The memory of the other man’s blank expression and blinking eyes still made him smile.

Mycroft was apparently content to let Greg wander, but Greg had no desire to seem rude by ignoring Mycroft in favour of his collection of curiosities. “How many languages do you speak?”

"Fluently? Fourteen. I speak a number of others passably well, but I couldn't pass for a native speaker."

“Fucking hell,” Greg breathed out, awed. He knew the man spoke a fair few, but fluent in fourteen? “You’re amazing.”

"Too kind. It really is a requirement of my role, though."

“No, not too kind,” Greg replied emphatically. He’d never tolerated Mycroft talking himself down, and he wasn’t going to start now. He glanced at the sofa and armchair and stalled. “Where do you sit?”

"I thought you wanted to see the rest of the flat."

“I do.” Greg smiled happily, pleased that Mycroft was willing to share the rest of his home with him. He’d not expected to see more than the kitchen and living room, and he was determined to make the most of this opportunity to get to know Mycroft better. A wave of anxiety rolled at him at the thought that, if he went through with his plan it might be the end of their friendship. As concerned about that possibility as he was, however, there had been enough flashes of something in Mycroft’s gaze and tone, and moments when there was an almost palpable intensity between them, for Greg to tentatively hope that tonight could be the start of something beautiful.

With a pleased glint in his eyes, Mycroft inclined his head and crossed the room to one of the bookcases. Throwing a sly sort of smile over his shoulder at Greg, he gripped one of the shelves; there was a muted click, and the whole bookcase slid noiselessly forward and swung aside to reveal a very solid-looking metal door with biometric security controls. Greg laughed delightedly: he had only ever seen the like of it in action movies, and it was oddly thrilling - and oddly unsurprising - to see Mycroft use one in real life. Once the system was satisfied that Mycroft was indeed Mycroft, the door opened, and Greg followed him into the office.

The home office was positively snug compared to the dark and dreary bunker he’d visited recently, radiating pure, unadulterated Mycroft. A portrait of Her Majesty hung above a folded-down drop-leaf table, which stood against the wall between two slim dining chairs. The desk, which was every bit as classy as Greg had imagined, was set in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Turning on the spot, Greg discovered a small coffee table before a pair of armchairs nestled in an alcove; there was a bookmark in the book on the coffee table, and a pair of folded glasses sat neatly atop it, leaving Greg with the strong impression that, when at home on his own, this was where Mycroft chose to spend his time. It was then, just as he was turning to thank Mycroft for allowing him to see his home, that he spotted that most of the art on the walls had been painted by his daughters. Leah had first met Mycroft at five, and in the years since had been asking Greg to pass on choice art projects since, a tradition which had since been adopted by Maddie as soon as she’d been able to understand the concept of Mycroft.

The very visible evidence of the high esteem in which Mycroft evidently his family was almost overwhelming. Greg turned back to the desk and found Mycroft leaning against it, directing a distinctly warm look in his direction. Just to the left of Mycroft, Greg spotted a very odd-looking lumpy clay mug, painted in what looked like every colour Leah had been able to find in the art classroom, in use as a holder for two or three plainly expensive fountain pens. It must have been a good six years since she’d brought it home and asked him to pass it on. “It’ll make Leah’s week when I tell her you’ve still got that.”

"Of course I still have it. I keep it all.” Mycroft smiled. “There is also a collection of newspaper clippings about your more interesting cases in the cabinet under the drinks tray."

“This is going to mean a lot to them; it does to me, too,” he said, voice gruff with emotion. His left arm, which, without permission from his brain, reached out as though to touch Mycroft, and he diverted the movement to run his hand through his hair instead. “Thank you for showing me.”

"I must confess that I have an ulterior motive."

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Are you in the market for another of Maddie's masterpieces? I’m sure we can arrange something.”

"Nothing so innocuous,” Mycroft replied with a faint smile. “This is fair warning that you and they are on my snatch list."

Heart suddenly pounding, and trying desperately not to read too much into anything and risk making an absolute tit of himself, Greg asked, “I beg your pardon?”

"I mean that in the event of, say, a nuclear attack, you and the girls will be snatched: taken from wherever you are and transported directly to a place of safety. This room is one such place, but there are others."

“Ah, right,” Greg said, hoping he didn’t look as disappointed as he felt. “Is something like that likely, do you think?”

"No more so now than for the last thirty or forty years. I simply wanted you to understand that I meant it when I told you that you are one of the most important people in the world to me."

Greg glowed like he’d just been given the world’s best present. “I... You are to me, but I haven’t got a bunker.” This is it!!! Greg’s inner voice shouted, and, on a logical level he knew that this moment was probably the best he was going to get to make a move, but, as he opened his mouth, his courage scrambled out of the window and fucked off. “Shall we go and have that cuppa?”

"Unless you want to know where the lavatory is, by all means."

“Yeah, that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Greg replied with a half-nervous laugh. The adrenaline-backlash from being on the verge of propositioning Mycroft left Greg feeling distinctly jittery. He jammed his shaking hands into his pockets and followed Mycroft back out of his office.

En route to the bathroom, Mycroft showed Greg the bedrooms. One was predominantly pink with two beds and a wardrobe, and Greg felt himself frown when he saw it. He wasn’t aware of any girls in the Holmes family, but neither of the Holmes boys was really one for talking about their family life, so there could be scores of them for all Greg knew.

Once the tour had concluded, they headed back down the stairs, with Greg willing away his glee at having seen Mycroft’s bedroom with each step. Back in the living room, Greg glanced between the sofa and the armchairs, massively overthinking where he was going to sit. “Thank you for showing me your home. I’ve enjoyed seeing Mycroft-land.”

"I hope that you will see it again."

“Me, too. You’re always welcome at my place, but I know it’s harder with security.” Greg pulled a face, thinking about how much time he’d spent crawling around after his bearded dragon’s dinner in the last week and thought better of inviting Mycroft into it. “And Maddie discovered Daisy’s dinner, so it’s kinda crawling with crickets at the minute, too.”

Mycroft laughed delightedly. "Marvellous! She really is a joy - and very like Sherlock at her age."

“You wouldn’t think that if you woke up and found one of the fuckers on your face,” Greg replied, restraining the urge to shudder at the thought of another Sherlock in the world. He loved the man like a son, but one of those on the loose was more than enough.

"I've had worse mornings”

“I bet you have,” Greg replied, thinking about some of the situations he knew Mycroft dealt with on a routine basis. Aiming for keeping the conversation light and flowing, Greg put on his best innocent expression and said, “I’ll bring you a box so you can get the full experience.”

"It's a very kind offer, but I will not be taking you up on it," Mycroft deadpanned playfully.

“Pity. You’d have hours of fun trying to catch the fuckers.” Recognising that he was stalling again and that putting it off wasn’t doing him any good at all, Greg replayed the lines that he’d spent the early hours rehearsing in his mind and fiddled with the left cuff of his shirt. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about. It’s a bit, well, awkward.” He bit his lip nervously, and suddenly, despite Mycroft’s gentle smile and twinkling eyes, Greg bottled it and blurted, “Do you — does your service ever do work experience for kids?”

"In the Department for Social and Administrative Affairs and Citizenship, yes; as a matter of long-standing policy. In my other role, I am confident that we can make an exception for Leah." He sipped his tea and pinned Greg with a look that told Greg that he hadn’t been fooled for a second. "And in response to the question you wanted to ask: yes, darling. But perhaps we can have dinner first."

Greg, looking and feeling like the proverbial rabbit caught in headlights again, uttered something that sounded dangerously like ‘wibble’. With a hot flush, he cleared his throat, put his teacup down before his hands’ shaking left him wearing tea, and tried again. “Yes?”

Mycroft smiled into his teacup. "Yes. Do drink your tea before it goes cold."

Obediently, Greg picked up his teacup, making sure to support it from underneath. “Are we talking about the same question?”

"Yes," Mycroft replied with certainty.

Greg blinked. And then blinked again. “Just to be clear, I think I’m in love with you. In fact, there’s no thinking about it. I know I’m in love with you,” he babbled. “If that’s not what you’re talking about…”

"It is. And I have been for a number of years."

Greg actually swayed on the spot as his breath left him in a whoosh, and for a moment he worried he was having some sort of russet-jumper-induced hallucination. He pinched his own thigh savagely, and was reassured when it fucking hurt.

"Breathe,” Mycroft instructed, and calmly sipped his tea. “It generally works best when repeated regularly.” He nodded when Greg took a deep breath and set his cup back on its saucer. “Take the time you need to find your balance.”

Feeling like he was in the twilight zone, Greg watched as Mycroft drank his tea like nothing of note had been said. “Are you sure about that? Being in love with me, I mean.”

Mycroft smiled adoringly. "I should hardly have said it if I were not."

“I — yes!” Greg exclaimed, smiling the kind of smile that could light a room. “God, I thought I was going to fuck up our whole friendship with this, but I just couldn’t keep it to myself. It was one thing when I was married and it was just a crush, but since I left Jo…I just can’t stop thinking about you.”

Watching dotingly as Greg rambled happily, Mycroft did not interrupt until it looked like Greg’s emphatic gesturing with his cup was putting him in danger of covering himself in tea. "Drink your tea, darling."

“You can thank Daniel for me having the balls to bring it up,” Greg replied as he put his now-empty teacup down. “I thought I was imagining you flirting with me, so God knows how long it would’ve taken otherwise.”

"He has been very good for you,” Mycroft said serenely. “I would have taken matters into my own hands before too much longer, of course.”

“That’s just as well, really, because I honestly thought I was imagining things.” Greg relaxed back into the sofa, and for the first time, made no effort to hide how attractive he found Mycroft. Not that he had much choice in the matter, really, because Mycroft in the jumper was about the sexiest thing Greg had seen and he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of hiding it. “So, dinner first and then working out what happens next?”

"I have several ideas," Mycroft murmured with just enough heat to set Greg’s heart racing.

“Yeah, me too,” Greg said breathily, watching Mycroft’s throat work as he finished his tea. The skin around Mycroft’s jaw was looser than it had been when they first met, and his hairline was in rapid retreat, but Greg had never wanted anyone more, and he felt positively lightheaded at the thought that the attraction was reciprocated. His hormones, which seemed to be throwing a celebratory party, seized control of Greg’s mouth, and the lusty thoughts fluttering his mind tipped over themselves in their hurry to leave his mouth. “For the record, you’re gorgeous. And that jumper...don’t get me wrong, I love you in a suit, but...yeah, fucking gorgeous.”

Mycroft smiled, patently pleased. "I'm glad that you approve. I generally appear to best advantage in a suit, but they are a trifle... fiddly to remove."

“Oh,” Greg said inanely, the thought of removing Mycroft’s clothes temporarily crashing his brain. Mycroft’s expression flickering with amusement was enough to snap Greg out of it. “I can see your arse better in this, too.” He smiled when Mycroft chuckled, and leant forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “On the subject of sex and trifle, please tell me you haven’t got a fridge full of it ready for sex. Once was more than enough for that.”

Mycroft laughed, a rare full-bodied laugh. “I would never do that to you.” He cocked his head and looked at Greg. "Would you like to sate your curiosity and explore while I cook?"

The trust Mycroft, who Greg knew to be an intensely private man, was demonstrating left Greg feeling awed. As curious as he was about Mycroft’s private space, however, it was the man himself that Greg wanted time with. “It’s you I want to see; I’d rather help you cook and explore with you later.” His cheeks flushed thinking about the last time he attempted to cook something that wasn’t lasagna or chicken dinosaurs and chips. “On second thoughts, I can be a bit of a disaster in the kitchen if it’s anything more than the basics, so maybe watching’s safer.”

"I have it on excellent authority that you're a perfectly competent cook," Mycroft replied mildly, pouring them another cup of tea each.

The next hour or so passed in a blissful haze. There was conversation and banter and a lot of flirting, but had Greg been asked to recount what they talked about he wouldn’t have had a clue. Watching as Mycroft efficiently and competently cooked steak and chips was something of an unworldly experience; it was so domestic and normal, and those were adjectives Greg hadn’t once applied to Mycroft. He even got to see Mycroft’s forearms when the younger man rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. He’d never had erotic thoughts about forearms before, but watching the younger man’s dextrous fingers manipulate the fabric, revealing pale, freckled arms was an experience that Greg instantly knew would be with him for life. Mycroft was apparently aware that Greg wasn’t entirely with it; he glanced at Greg with undisguised adoration and gentle amusement frequently, and occasionally preempted Greg’s utterances of disbelief by saying, “yes, darling, this is really happening.”

It wasn’t until Greg was halfway through his dinner that Greg felt like he had the brain capacity to attempt a proper conversation again. “Is this really happening?” he asked.

"Yes, darling," Mycroft replied placidly, and if he was growing annoyed or frustrated with Greg he didn’t show it.

“And you’re sure you want this?” Greg gestured with his fork, and Mycroft was unfazed when a chunk of steak landed on Greg’s plate with a splat, splashing juices onto the pristine tablecloth. “It’s kinda come out of nowhere. Three months ago you were prepping me for dates with other men, and now we’re risking our friendship for…” Eyes widening as his face paled, Greg suddenly had a thought that had his tummy doing somersaults. “Oh, fuck me: Sherlock. That’s not going to go down well.”

Mycroft set his cutlery down and regarded Greg patiently. "Sherlock will be disgustingly pleased with himself, and this has most assuredly not come from nowhere." He adjusted the position of his glass of pomegranate juice, radiating fond amusement in the way that Greg had come to decide was unique to Mycroft. "I encouraged you to experiment with other men because I had no intention of letting you go once I had you, and you deserved to have had the opportunity to be an appalling tart if you were inclined to try it." Mycroft glanced down and shifted his plate infinitesimally to the right. Apparently now satisfied with the placement of the tableware, he returned his gaze to Greg with a distinctly predatory glint. "I do not do 'casual', and I have been seducing you for some weeks."

Greg felt his face heat and he squirmed, blurting “None of them stood a chance next to you. I always fancied and admired you, but I’ve not been able to get you out of my head since the day I left Jo.”

"I know," Mycroft replied with just a hint of smugness. "But the fact remains that you deserved the opportunity before I claimed you. Which, for the avoidance of any and all possible doubt, I have."

Delighted at the thought of having been claimed by Mycroft, Greg smiled almost giddily. “I love you.”

"And I you," Mycroft replied serenely, the look in his eyes as eloquent as his words, and sipped his drink. "Tell me, did you happen to notice any details of the spare bedroom?"

“Course I did; I was looking at everything,” Greg replied, reaching for his own drink. “I’m guessing nieces or goddaughters? Well, I hope they are, because I wouldn’t be much of a detective if I’d missed you having kids, and, no offence, but I think you’re a bit too gay for that.”

"My only female relation is my mother, and I have no godchildren. It is intended for Leah and Maddie." Mycroft neatly bisected a chip. "Clearly not a long-term solution, but I trust they will be amenable to sharing when they are here."

Overwhelmed, Greg blinked and played that back again. “When did you have that done?” he asked, voice rough.

"When you filed for divorce." Mycroft paused for long enough to finish his chip. "You may not have noticed that the tall cabinet with the foliage and rather charming little pond is, in fact, a vivarium."

Greg turned to look and, sure enough, it was. Quite possibly the fanciest vivarium he’d seen, and he knew that Daisy, who was quite possibly the most spoiled bearded dragon in London, would love it. Greg wanted to say something, but words would not come. It was obvious that Mycroft had had feelings for him for a long time, and had been planning for them to get together, but he had allowed it to happen at Greg’s pace. He’d actively encouraged Greg to go date other men at the same time as preparing his home to welcome Greg and his kids when the time was right, and knowing that was briefly overwhelming. “I — you…” he said eventually, but found himself unable to articulate what he was feeling.

Never one to need things explicitly stated, Mycroft smiled understandingly. “Yes.”

“Fucking hell. How long ago did you see all of this coming?” Greg asked, blown away. He’d left Jo for the final time two years ago, and coming out had been a slow process once he had reconciled himself to the end of his marriage and all of the trauma that had gone with it.

"I will admit that I hadn't anticipated Maddie ten years ago, but everything else..."

It took a moment for Greg to process that, and a laugh bubbled out of him. “Yeah, nor had I. As mid-life surprises go, though…” He wasn’t lying about Maddie being a surprise, either. He and Jo had reconciled after yet another infidelity-induced separation, and, at forty six, they had discovered that Jo was expecting. The stress of the pregnancy and juggling work and looking after a newborn had been much harder on the wrong side of forty than it had been ten years earlier with Leah, but Greg would not have swapped Maddie for anything. In the two and a bit years since the divorce, Greg’s life had improved immeasurably, and now it looked like it was getting even better. A car alarm sounded outside, snapping Greg out of his reverie, and he realised that he had been staring at his dinner for a good minute or so. With a mental kick up his own backside, Greg turned his attention back to his dinner. “This is beautiful,” he said sincerely.

"I am pleased to hear it,” Mycroft replied with a pleased smile that made Greg’s heart sing, and cut into his own steak. "I intend to make you very happy, you realise."

“You already do and have done for years. You were there for me when I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone else, held me together during the fallout from the divorce, and now this.”

"I can do better, if you will allow me to."

Fork frozen in mid-air, Greg eyed Mycroft. “I don’t doubt it, but I’m not going to take advantage of you, Mycroft.”

"I wish you would,” Mycroft replied, and Greg detected more than a hint of sexual intent in his tone.

“In bed, absolutely; I can’t wait to see what you’ve got under that jumper,” Greg said with a saucy wink and a flirty smile. “We both know I’ve wanted to be on my knees in front of you since the day we met, and I didn’t even know that I love giving oral back then.”

"Oh, good," Mycroft replied with an air of a cat anticipating canary À la crème.

For a man with chronic low self-esteem, feeling so wanted in this way was like sinking into a hot bath after a hard day, and he revelled in it. Greg sipped his juice and was too happy to be mortified when his smiling as he drank meant that he dribbled slightly. “You’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this, so how do you want this to work? Neither of us is going for casual, but I’ve got no idea about the rest.” He paused to wipe his chin with a napkin. “Are we talking about us having dinner once a week with occasional sleepovers, or a few nights a week together, or what?”

"I want to marry you, but I accept that as a long-term objective. At this point, I will be satisfied with as much as you are comfortable to give."

It took a moment for that comment to filter through, but when it did, Greg felt his face split into a beaming smile. He was, however, a little too jaded to think that rushing headlong into another marriage was a smart idea after his experiences with Jo. “Let’s make sure we’re not going to drive each other crackers before we get that far. You haven’t met my bad habits yet.”

"Whereas you have met my brother," Mycroft replied with an air of long suffering.

“Yeah, but you’re not talking about marrying him,” Greg grinned. “I can promise I don’t keep bits of murder victim in the fridge, though.”
Pausing to collect his thoughts and decide how he wanted to approach this, Greg spent a moment enjoying his perfectly cooked steak. The truth was that, right then, Greg would have gladly jumped headlong into spending as much time with Mycroft as possible, but he was far too sensible to say as much, because he had the feeling that Mycroft would go with it. Instead, he aimed for what felt like a sensible middle ground. “The kids are with their mum or grandparents at the weekends, so how about trying one or two nights with all of us, and then as much of the weekend with me as you want?”

"Whatever you think best," Mycroft replied, and his tone told Greg’s that his gut feeling that Mycroft would go all in if Greg wanted that was correct.

Despite his delight that this was actually happening, Greg was very aware that they were risking everything. Years of friendship could be down the swanee if they got this wrong, and that wasn’t a fate he wanted to contemplate. “If this doesn’t work, I don’t want to lose you as a friend. You mean too much to me for that.”

Mycroft was serene in the face of Greg’s anxiety, radiating surety and reassurance. "It will work."

“I’ve wanted this for years, but didn’t let myself think about it.” Greg smiled, thinking about how hard he had been trying to keep his distinctly non-friendish thoughts about Mycroft locked away recently. “There’s this box at the back of my mind, and I was shoving any…naughty thoughts about you into it, but none of the locks have been keeping the fucker locked.”

"Good,” Mycroft replied with a knowing glint.

“I didn’t think so at the time,” Greg sighed with a wry smile. He should have known better than to think that he could hide anything from Mycroft. “I thought you were going to see right through me.”

Eyes sparkling with amusement, Mycroft said, "I did see right through you.”

Greg squirmed in embarrassment. “You never cease to amaze me.”

"I understand that it wears off after prolonged exposure. Chloë hasn't been impressed for years."

“You’ll never not be amazing,” Greg told him firmly, not caring that he was probably giving Mycroft dippy looks. “I can’t believe this is happening. It feels like I’m in some sort of other world.”

"Only figuratively," Mycroft reassured him, radiating warmth and affection.

Greg smiled and set about finishing his steak, basking in everything that was Mycroft. He’d long since realised that Mycroft was actually human, despite outward appearances and what Sherlock would have the world believe, but this was the first time that Mycroft seemed to be totally at ease. Greg’s ruminations on whether it was being at home or the new development in their relationship that was doing it lasted through the rest of dinner, and Mycroft was apparently content to leave him to his thoughts. It was a heck of a lot to process, after all. It was with a slightly nervous flutter in his tummy that Greg realised that he’d been looking at an empty plate for a good minute. “What now?”

“Coffee, of course,” Mycroft replied, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world, and Greg supposed it was. They’d been following dinner with coffee, mint chocolates, and occasionally brandy for years, so why stop now?

Chapter Text

Mycroft moved them into the sitting room with the comfy-looking furniture to enjoy their coffee. Assuming that Mycroft would take the armchair again, Greg put his cup on a coaster and settled himself on the sofa. He had no idea what to expect next, but he was warm, well-fed, and the man of his dreams apparently loved him back, so Greg would have been happy had Mycroft declared that he needed an early night and called Greg a taxi as soon as they finished their drinks.

As it happened, what happened next was Mycroft stopping to pick up a remote control on his way across the room, putting his coffee down on the coaster next to Greg’s, and joining him on the sofa. Greg watched with delight as the other man held out a long arm and said, "You have wanted to cuddle up to this jumper from the moment you set eyes on it."

Greg grinned unrepentantly, too happy to be embarrassed at being called out on his apparent russet jumper fetish. “To be fair, I’ve been wanting to cuddle you, too.” He shuffled closer and sighed happily as he wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s back and snuggled. The jumper was every bit as luxuriant as it looked, and he immediately knew that he could very easily become addicted to having so much bodily contact with Mycroft. “I’ve never been able to get enough of things like this, so I hope you like cuddling.”

"I imagine that I shall," Mycroft replied as he settled his arm around Greg, radiating contentment.

As addled by the freely-given affection as he was, it took a moment for Mycroft’s words to register. “Don’t you know?”

Settling in comfortably, Mycroft stroked Greg’s left arm. "No, darling.”

“Right, just as well we’re getting together, then,” Greg replied firmly, mildly appalled. He might not have got anything like as much of this as he’d have liked during the course of his marriage, but he’d experienced it more than enough from the rest of his family to appreciate the value of a good cuddle. Honestly, given a choice between sex and a cuddle on the sofa with a bottle of something nice and a good film, Greg would opt for a cuddle more often than not. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t enjoy sex, because he did, but a proper cuddle was intimate and restorative, and, frankly, the lack of worry that his anatomy wasn’t going to play ball was a definite bonus at his age.

Greg returned Mycroft’s fond smile, absently petting the soft knit covering Mycroft’s abdomen. “I didn’t know you wore clothes.” It wasn’t often Greg managed to baffle Mycroft, but this was one such occasion, and it took a protracted loud silence from Mycroft for Greg to realise that he hadn’t actually made any sense. “Normal clothes, I mean. Like not-suits. I know suits are clothes, but you know what I mean.”

Evidently no less baffled, Mycroft said, "Suits are also normal clothes."

“Not yours,” Greg replied, very glad that his flushed cheeks were largely out of Mycroft’s line of sight. “Yours are…I don’t know. I don't think you could look more armoured if you were actually wearing a suit of armour.”

"Contrary to popular belief, they are not actually bullet-proof,” Mycroft teased.

Affecting an air of great disappointment, Greg sighed. “Your umbrella’s definitely got a sword in it, though.”

"Oh, yes. And a two-shot pistol, and the ferrule detaches to both become a small explosive charge and reveal a blade coated with a deadly neurotoxin."
Vindicated, Greg huffed a laugh. “I knew it.” Tentatively, he settled a hand on Mycroft’s thigh, and was unsurprised to find the muscles under his hand well-toned.

"I also have exploding tie bars and poison-bearing cufflinks,” Mycroft replied, pressing his leg against Greg’s.

Greg laughed delightedly. He’d always thought that those kinds of accessories only existed inside the world of James Bond and his colleagues, and it was thrilling to be proved wrong. “Is there some sort of real Q making you these things?”

Smiling indulgently, Mycroft said, "The division is colloquially known as 'games and theory'.”

“So there is one!” Greg exclaimed, lighting up like a kid at Christmas. “I’ve always wondered.”

"Of course there is. We could hardly leave it to the other services."

“Speaking of James Bond, would this be a good time for me to make good on that threat to make you watch Skyfall?”

“Naturally.” Mycroft pointed the remote control at what Greg had assumed was a rather large-if-bland landscape and Greg watched in amazement it turned into a TV.

“That’s amazing!” Greg exclaimed wondrously as Mycroft navigated to the DVD menu as though nothing remarkable had happened. He’d heard about such TVs but he’d never seen one in person, and it awoke an almost child-like delight in him in a way that not much had since Tomorrow’s World had captivated him in his teens. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Mycroft had planned the evening in so much detail that he even had Skyfall ready to go, but he was. “You wouldn’t believe it wasn’t a painting unless you saw it do that, would you?”

It wasn’t until Greg saw Mycroft’s doting expression that he realised that he was babbling and grinning like an excited child. Before he had time to feel any embarrassment about his overly enthusiastic response to what was essentially just a TV, Mycroft slid a fingertip under Greg’s chin and kissed him.

One moment passed, and then another, before Greg could believe that Mycroft was kissing him, but those were definitely Mycroft’s lips, and they were definitely touching his own. Greg could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but the rest of his awareness was so taken up by Mycroft that he didn’t know which way was up. The other man had always had the kind of presence that could - and did - suck the air out of a room, and being the sole focus of that intensity was overwhelming. Feeling at risk of being swept away on a tide of something indescribable, Greg raised his right hand and slid his fingers into Mycroft’s hair. It was fine and soft between his fingers and Greg relished the quiet sound Mycroft made when Greg caressed the nape of his neck.

For a long moment, the intensity Mycroft brought to the kiss was almost enough to make Greg feel like he was on the verge of imploding, but, apparently having recognised that Greg was on the verge of climbing him, Mycroft dialled it down and pressed play. As the theme music filled the room, Mycroft pulled Greg closer and kissed his temple. “No spoilers, darling.”

Had Greg not seen Skyfall before, he wouldn’t have had a clue what it was about by the time M was dying in Bond’s arms. Being in such close proximity to Mycroft, being able to touch and smell and kiss the man whenever the urge presented itself was positively heady, and Greg was far too distracted by revelling in the freely given affection to pay Bond’s escapades much mind. Mycroft, much to Greg’s surprised delight, turned out to be far more affectionate and tactile than he had ever imagined, and he actively encouraged Greg’s explorations.

"Well, it certainly doesn't hold water as a realistic depiction of the service," Mycroft deadpanned as the credits started to roll.

Amused, Greg looked up at Mycroft. It was gratifying to see the other man’s lips swollen from the kisses they had shared during the film. “I thought you might say that. Was any of it right?” He feathered kisses across Mycroft’s jaw, enjoying the sensation of the reddish stubble against his sensitive lips. “I’m kinda hoping they’re right about MI6 staff liking sex.”

"I'm sure that many of them do. You realise that I do not work for MI6?"

Greg paused in his kissing. “What about MI5?”

"No,” Mycroft replied, amused.

“I know you do something in the civil service, but I always thought that was a front.” Greg watched as his blunt fingers caressed Mycroft’s inner thigh. He was half expecting Mycroft to tell him to stop his pawing, but he did nothing of the sort; instead, the fingers of the hand he had on Greg’s flank started mimicking the movements Greg’s fingers were making.

"It's a genuine post, actually. It merely occupies very little of my time.” He watched Greg’s fingers with a heat in his eyes. "But it is not my only post."

“Are you allowed to tell me where you work?” Greg had never asked so directly before, but he supposed that having had the man’s tongue in his mouth meant that he was at least allowed to ask what he actually did.

"You have seen three of my offices, darling."

Greg hummed and briefly sulked over the pulse point in Mycroft’s neck. “But none of them is helpfully labelled.” He removed his lips from Mycroft’s neck lest he leave marks on the other man’s pale neck. “Not like when you walk into mine and there’s an giant lollipop with New Scotland Yard on it outside.”

"DoSaAaC is,” Mycroft replied. The heat from his hand was radiating through the fabric of Greg’s shirt as Mycroft stroked his flank. "It may help if you know that I also sit on the JIC."

“Joint Intelligence Committee?” Greg asked, comprehension dawning. He didn’t know much about how security and intelligence worked, but he had been in policing for long enough to have picked up some of the lingo. “So you’re not MI5 or Six because you control both.”

"And more besides. Much, much more." Mycroft leant in and kissed him, his lips light and almost teasing. "Without wishing to sound excessively dramatic, I am essentially the nation's first and last lines of defence, and I both literally and figuratively hold the nuclear option."

Greg let that percolate. It didn’t come as a surprise, really, not when he really thought about all of the things he’d seen over the years. The expensive cars, terrifying assistants, and the way he could get Sherlock out of the shit repeatedly were apparently just the tip of Antarctica’s iceberg. Greg kissed Mycroft’s shoulder and smiled teasingly. “I’ve told my family you’re a civil servant. That covers a multitude of sins.”

"It most assuredly does," Mycroft replied, eyes glinting and radiating an indefinable something that made Greg want to sink to his knees.

“So, what about JIC people?” Greg asked, almost lightheaded with arousal. “Do they like sex?”

Confident and perfectly at ease, Mycroft replied, "So I hear.”

Something went ‘thunk’ in Greg’s head and he closed the distance between their lips and kissed Mycroft with ten years of pent up passion and longing. Mycroft responded in kind, and Greg felt as though his insides had turned molten in the blink of an eye. Greg heard himself whimper, but he was too in the moment to be embarrassed. He slid his right hand under Mycroft’s lovely russet jumper instead. The skin under his hand was warm and soft, and Greg was delighted to find a solidly masculine covering of hair.

Mycroft shifted, giving Greg more room to explore, without breaking their kiss. Just when Greg felt like he was going to dissolve into a puddle, Mycroft eased off. "May I take this to mean that you intend to stay the night?"

“I can’t,” Greg said, disappointed. He drew the tip of his index finger in a circle around Mycroft’s navel and smiled at the slight catch in his breathing.

“Sherrinford’s babysitting but I wasn’t expectingthis so he’s not there overnight.” Gref paused as a thought occurred to him. “But I could ring him and ask if he could stay. He’s on a study break at uni so I don’t think it’ll be a problem, and he’s always glad for the extra money.”

"It will be quicker all round if I attend to it.” Mycroft reached for his phone and unlocked it by holding the camera up to his right eye. "Which Sherrinford is it?"

“Sherrinford Goldstein. He’s my sister Gail’s eldest.”

Eyes on his phone as he tapped out a message to one of his many minions, Mycroft replied, "Ah, yes. A very sound young man. He'll be a fine veterinarian."

“He will,” Greg smiled proudly. “He’s the first in the family to go to uni, you know.”

"I do indeed," Mycroft replied, having the good grace not to remind Greg of the previous twelvety times he’d informed Mycroft of this. He glanced down at his phone and said, "Childcare has been arranged."

“Thank you.” Greg’s tummy suddenly felt like there was a family of butterflies trapped inside. He glanced down at where his hand was covered by Mycroft’s fine russet jumper to prove to himself that this was actually happening. “I know it’s daft, but I’m nervous,” he admitted, watching as the mound of his hand moved as he caressed Mycroft’s abdomen. “And probably overthinking things, too, because that’s always so helpful.”

"It's perfectly understandable, darling; I make most people nervous,” Mycroft said, somehow both reassuring and teasing.

“I’m not scared of you; just a bit nervous about this.” Greg’s gaze returned to where his hand disappeared up Mycroft’s top like it was one of the world’s wonders. “I wouldn’t want you pissed off at me, mind.”

"Sherlock's big scary detective inspector from Scotland Yard is leery of a mild-mannered minor government official?"

Greg snickered and kissed Mycroft soundly. “Mild-mannered minor government official my arse.”

With a delighted, carefree laugh, Mycroft threaded the fingers of his left hand into Greg’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss. The intensity was enough to leave Greg feeling light-headed, and, quite before he knew what the fuck he was thinking, he had one leg draped over Mycroft’s thighs. Mycroft demonstrated his approval of this move by grasping Greg’s thigh and using his grip to manoeuvre Greg into his lap properly.

With a deep, appreciative sound, Mycroft took hold of Greg’s arse with both hands. "You have no idea how long this arse of yours has tormented me.”

Greg moaned and rocked his hips, his hormones well and truly in control of his body. “I had a wet dream about being on my knees under your desk the night after I met you. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s been tormented,” he confessed, voice rough with need, and lifted the hem of Mycroft’s jumper hopefully. “Can I?”

"Yes,” Mycroft replied between kisses. “But not here: we are both too old and too dignified for shagging on the sofa. Bed."

“Speak for yourself,” Greg mumbled, kissing down the long line of Mycroft’s neck. “You might be too dignified for shagging on the sofa, but I’m not.”

Amused, Mycroft kissed Greg’s grin. "Bed. Now."

Chapter Text

“If we must.” Greg said, carefully easing himself up from Mycroft’s lap. Suddenly very aware that his arousal was on full, HD display, he hold a hand in front of his crotch as though to hide it from Mycroft’s view.

“That is an entirely pointless endeavour, darling,” Mycroft told Greg with a fond smile as he stood from the sofa, making no attempt to hide his own arousal. His eyes darkened as Greg lowered his hand, revealing the very impressive erection that Mycroft had doubtlessly felt when Greg had straddled him. “That’s better.”

Mycroft took hold of Greg’s hand and used it to pull him closer, so that their bodies flush from thigh to chest and Greg could feel Mycroft’s erection at his hip. It suddenly hit Greg that this was Mycroft he was about to have sex with, but the other man lifted his face with a finger under his chin and kissed him before he could start overthinking things again. Greg let himself get lost in the sensation, his whole body positively pulsing with arousal as he took hold of Mycroft’s arse. He’d been fantasising about getting his hands on Mycroft like this for years, and actually doing it was almost enough to short circuit his brain.

Fortunately, Mycroft was still largely able to function. Keeping Greg’s arse in his hands, took control of moving them from the sitting room to the bedroom, but even he was unable to make the journey without bumping into furniture, and, at one point, Greg was half convinced that Mycroft was going to have him against the bedroom door. Greg felt a thrill at the thought that he, with his wrinkles, grey hair, and soft belly, was enough to shake Mycroft’s iron-clad self-control enough that they were on the verge of shagging outside the bedroom like a pair of horny teenagers. In a display of sheer willpower, Greg reined himself in and smiled into the kiss. “If you didn’t want us shagging on the sofa, I don’t imagine that your bedroom door’s any better.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft pulled back just enough to look at Greg, who was gratified to see that his pupils were blown with arousal and his lips were swollen from their kisses. “Make use of the bathroom and shower thoroughly please, darling. I intend to put my mouth in some very interesting places.”

“Oh?” Greg croaked, his heart racing enough that it felt like there was a miniature drummer in the hollow of his throat.

“Hmm.” Mycroft looked Greg up and down, his gaze dark with desire. “Don’t bother dressing when you’ve finished, and do come straight through.”

Cheeks flaming, Greg fled for the bathroom. He hoped that Mycroft didn’t want to put his tongue anywhere too interesting, because as much as Greg had enjoyed introducing his fingers to his arse, the thought of a tongue down there was almost enough to kill his arousal completely.

The bathroom was luxurious in the understated way that Greg associated with Mycroft. Nothing as declassé as a gold toilet, but nothing in it looked ordinary, either. There was a tray of luxury toiletries clearly intended for his use on the shelf above the basin, and the towels hanging on the towel heater were as warm and soft as they looked.

The shower itself was, well, pure bliss, Greg quickly decided. He’d never seen a shower like it, and he was almost giddy at getting to use something so fancy. There was a large, square shower head suspended from the ceiling, four jets set in a vertical line down the wall at the back, and he still didn’t know what all of the knobs did. Hot water rained down on him from above, and the jets directed water at his back with enough power to draw a guttural moan from him. He felt the tension that had built up at the thought of propositioning Mycroft dissipate in minutes, and he resolved to abuse this shower as often as humanly possible. It was only the thought of Mycroft in another room, a Mycroft who apparently wanted to have sex with him that galvanised Greg into action.

Stepping out of the shower for the second time that evening, Greg reached for one of the luxuriant towels and made quick work of drying himself. In addition to the shower gel, shampoo, and conditioner, Mycroft had provided a moisturiser. Greg read the label dubiously and was on the verge of putting it back when it occurred to him that Mycroft must have put it with the other products for a reason, and his manners were too highly evolved to dismiss something that his soon-to-be lover evidently wanted him to wear. Still unconvinced, he squeezed some of the white substance into his hand and raised it to his nose to sniff it, and, satisfied that he wasn’t going to end up smelling like a florist’s shop, set about applying it everywhere that he could reach. He didn’t know if it did actually smell of sandalwood and patchouli, but it left his skin feeling smooth and soft so he wasn’t going to argue.

When Greg eventually ventured back out of the bathroom, he found that the bedroom door was ajar, and he could hear Mycroft moving around inside. Feeling like a thousand butterflies had taken flight in his stomach, Greg pushed the door open and stepped into the room just as Mycroft emerged from his en suite. "Oh, my. Very nice,” Mycroft purred in approval and extended a hand.

Greg was so busy appreciating Mycroft wearing only a towel that he missed the extended hand until the other man crooked a finger in invitation. Snapped out of his reverie, Greg crossed the room, took Mycroft’s hand, and slipped his free arm around his waist. The younger man’s body was slender but well-toned, and, much to Greg’s delight, he was liberally freckled. Slowly, Greg’s eyes worked his way up Mycroft’s body, cataloguing the reddish body hair, freckles, and some very faint scars, until he found himself looking Mycroft in the eye. After years of quashing his feelings and desires, seeing his own wonder reflected in Mycroft’s eyes was nothing short of breathtaking.

Mycroft kissed him, commanding in a way that he hadn’t been earlier, and Greg let himself melt into it. There had always been something powerful about Mycroft’s presence, but this was so much more. Then, just when Greg was sure that he was going to explode on the spot, Mycroft broke the kiss. "Tell me your preferences."

With a cheeky wink, Greg gave Mycroft’s towel a tug and grinned as it spilled to the floor at their feet. “We’ll start with that.”

It earned him a chuckle. "Fair enough. And we will continue with…?"

Greg kissed Mycroft’s smile and settled a hand on his arse. “I haven’t really got any,” he said, faintly embarrassed. Sex with his ex-wife had never been particularly exciting, for what were now perhaps obvious reasons, and his experiments with other men hadn’t strayed beyond the conventional. “I’m not very experienced. Blow jobs and hand jobs is all, really.”

There was nothing of mockery or judgement in Mycroft’s gaze; only acceptance. "If it helps, my sexual body count is one. Though he was thorough.”

“Is it really? I’m surprised there isn’t a queue of blokes out there ahead of me,” Greg said, amazed. It wasn’t that he thought Mycroft was some sort of tart, of course, but he was wealthy, powerful, and fucking gorgeous, all of which were known aphrodisiacs in their own right. As little as those things mattered to him, he knew that a man like Mycroft truly could have his pick of eligible bachelors. He stroked Mycroft’s cheek, taking in his pale eyes and the faint suggestion of freckles and smiled. “I love you.”

"And I you," Mycroft replied with sincerity that Greg felt to his core.

“What about you? Any preferences or hard limits?”

"Oh, so you know the words despite your innocence," Mycroft teased, his gaze turning adoring when Greg gave him his most innocent look.

“I said I didn’t have much experience, not that I haven’t done some research,” Greg replied, responding to Mycroft’s teasing in kind. "The Internet’s a wonderful thing, don’t you think? It’s amazing what you can find if you look in the wrong place.”

Mycroft laughed softly and traced the line of Greg’s collarbone with a fingertip, apparently fascinated. "I can switch but prefer to top, and my tastes are largely vanilla though my natural inclination is to be moderately dominant, in the non-fetish sense."

Greg had encountered the terms ‘top’ and ‘bottom’ in his furtive research, and his stomach curled in something between squealing terror and a sudden urge to thrown himself face-down on the bed and beg. He did his best not to squirm, but couldn’t suppress the blush. “I haven’t let anyone else near my arse, but I’ve…experimented a bit myself.”

"Have you?" Mycroft purred, eyes darkening rapidly as he settled a hand on Greg’s left hip to steer him towards the bed.

“Yeah.” Greg moistened his lips and looked up at Mycroft from under his lashes, moving his own hand from Mycroft’s arse to his cock. It was hot and solid in his grip; not the first he had ever held, but by far the most important. Knowing that it was him who had Mycroft this hard was a heady thought. “I haven’t found my prostate yet, but I enjoyed looking for it."

Mycroft rewarded him with a soft, pleased sound and claimed a toe-curling kiss. "I should very much like to see that.”

Greg’s stomach quivered again. “I can do that,” he murmured, moving his lips down Mycroft’s neck. It was soft and pale, and Greg crowed inwardly at being able to kiss the freckles he had been admiring for years. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

"Have you seen yourself recently, darling? You're a walking definition of the term. Here." Mycroft reached past Greg to the neatly folded towel at the foot of the bed to retrieve the tube from atop it and hand it over. Greg read the label as Mycroft spread the towel over the pristine duvet, amused and unsurprised to find that nothing so crude as ‘lubricant’ appeared anywhere on it, though the substance inside was very obviously precisely that. He looked up from it when his soon-to-be lover spoke again. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Heart racing with excitement and arousal and nerves, Greg obeyed. Having sat opposite Mycroft and watched him make sure his knife and fork were perfectly aligned and his napkin was uncrumpled for ten years, Greg made sure that the towel wasn’t too badly disarranged as he got himself into position lest avoidable untidiness spoil the visual. The full weight of Mycroft’s attention was almost a physical sensation, and he felt a wash of apprehension; he found himself temporising. “I’ve never had an audience,”

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

Greg shook his head, nerves ebbing. “Not with you, no. I don’t trust anyone more than I trust you.” He settled himself with his feet flat on the bed and his knees up, feeling exposed and vulnerable, but oddly excited. His cock did not share his brain’s ambivalence: it was very happy to be on display. “You joining me?”

“You truly are breathtaking,” Mycroft murmured, sitting lower down on the bed, from where Greg knew he would be able to see everything. “May I just watch you, to begin with?”

“Yeah,” Greg consented roughly. Mycroft’s breath caught as Greg started stroking himself; that and the physical sensation formed a heady mix. Watching Mycroft, feeling his rapt attention, seeing how into it he was, overshadowed the physical sensations tenfold. Greg’s eyes wandered from Mycroft’s face to his cock, and the sight of it hard and leaking told Greg everything he needed to know about how much Mycroft was enjoying the view.

As aroused and as tempted as he was to rush to the main event, Greg took his time, growing in confidence, and he was gratified to see that the tremor had disappeared from his free hand when he eventually reached for the lube. He squeezed a blob onto his fingers, then a bit more for good luck, and reached back between his legs in search of his anus. His breathing stuttered when he penetrated himself, slowly easing more and more of his right middle finger inside. A nasty little voice - which sounded disconcertingly like his ex-wife - at the back of his mind told him that he was ridiculous for enjoying this so much, but he silenced it with a firm fuck off and worked a second finger in alongside the first. The stretch felt good, so good that he scissored his fingers gently to enhance the sensation before pressing in further. Greg heard someone moan, and it took him a moment to realise that it had not been him; he opened his eyes, having been unaware that they had fluttered closed, and his breath caught in his throat at the dark-eyed, hungry look Mycroft was giving him.

Greg smiled faintly and crooked his fingers on their next pass, searching for the spot that the Internet said would have him seeing stars, but the gland remained frustratingly elusive.

"May I?" Mycroft’s voice was low and his fingers were twitching on his thighs with the effort of not touching himself.

“Please,” Greg begged, voice tinged with desperation. Mycroft had long, elegant fingers, and Greg had been fantasising about them since he’d started experimenting with his arse.

Mycroft shifted on the bed, captured Greg’s wrist, and drew Greg’s fingers out slowly, eyes darkening predatorily when the lube on Greg’s fingers glistened in the light. “You are simply magnificent,” he murmured, slicking his own fingers.

”Please” begged again, more urgently this time. He spread his legs wantonly and his heart skipped a beat when Mycroft’s fingertips brushed his anus. “Oh, God,” he breathed as Mycroft penetrated him to the second knuckle with his index and middle fingers in one smooth move. He’d enjoyed his solo experimentations, but having someone else do it - having Mycroft do it - was mind-blowing. “I…that’s…” Greg gasped, involuntarily clenching around Myroft’s fingers when the other man deepened their penetration.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, leaning to kiss Greg with the kind of intensity that would have buckled his knees had he been standing. The predatory glint in Mycroft’s eyes as he sat back to watch himself work went to Greg’s cock so hard and fast that it left him lightheaded. Smiling knowingly, Mycroft crooked his fingers just so and located Greg’s prostate with unerring precision.

Toes curling pleasure, Greg moaned deeply as Mycroft massaged his prostate with his fingertips, fluctuating the pressure just enough that Greg couldn’t predict what was coming next. His cock, which had been largely neglected since Mycroft had taken over arse duties, throbbed, leaking pre-come as Greg tightened his hand around it. Stroking in time with Mycroft’s fingers, Greg felt his orgasm building inexorably. “I’m close, Mycroft,” he said roughly, feeling the tightness in his balls mount and watching a heavy bead of pre-come roll down the circumcised head of his cock. “So fucking close.”

Mycroft followed its progress hungrily, and, before Greg really knew what was happening, Mycroft was moving closer as though he was going to…he was Greg realised when Mycroft’s mouth was a scant couple of inches away, lips parting, and his breath ghosted hotly across the head of Greg’s cock. Greg felt his balls draw up and his cock jerked in his hand, and then everything went white between one breath and the next.

Before the euphoria of orgasm could take root, the realisation that he had just come in Mycroft’s face stole over Greg like a hard frost, and the mortification was agonising. Greg’s breath stuttered in his chest as he watched strings of ejaculate drip from Mycroft’s nose, cheek, and chin, and he had never wanted the ground to open and swallow him quite so badly.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as Mycroft blinked his surprise and raised his non-lubricated index finger to his ear and wiped the inside of the shell. “That was unexpected,” he remarked, inspecting the goo he had found there.

Greg opened his mouth abortively, face flaming and words failing him. “I–” he finally managed to stammer, just as Mycroft burst into oddly delighted laughter. Greg blinked at him, grasping desperately for something to say, but Mycroft’s laughter was such that he would be unable to respond even if Greg managed to spit out something comprehensible.

Between paroxyms, Mycroft kissed Greg, and his mirth was apparently contagious enough to be spread by a simple kiss.

The good humour and ready affection eased the tight ball of mortification in Greg’s chest, and he started babbling apologies between bouts of his own laughter as he reached for the box of tissues on the bedside cabinet. That had never happened, and it hadn’t even crossed his mind that it might be a risk at fucking fifty.

As his laughter calmed to intermittent giggles, Mycroft took the tissues to wipe his face and then pressed Greg down into the mattress for more kissing. “That was absolutely perfect,” Mycroft declared, twinkling and puckish.

“Me going off in your face is perfect?” Greg asked, amusement easing away the dregs of his mortification.

Mycroft smiled at Greg with blinding adoration. "Perhaps not that, specifically. But yes. Perfectly imperfect. Perfectly us.”

Greg rolled on top of him. “Perfectly us. I like the sound of that,” he said, kissing Mycroft tenderly. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it, though.” His lips travelled Mycroft’s down his neck to his freckled shoulders and beyond, worshipping everything in their path as Greg slowly moved further down Mycroft’s body. The freckles that Greg had so enjoyed on his lover’s neck and shoulders exploded across his chest, and there was a vibrant red tinge in his chest hair that Greg found delightful. He discovered that Mycroft’s dusky nipples were less sensitive than his own, so moved on and paid particular attention to the sensitive spots just above his hip bones. He smiled as Mycroft’s breathing grew faster and more shallow, and shifted further down his body until his mouth was comfortably within range of Mycroft’s cock. It was dark and heavy with arousal, and the head was wet with pre-come. “Hello, gorgeous,” Greg said in greeting, before allowing his mouth to venture forward to kiss the head.

A deep, appreciative sound was Greg’s reward, and he responded in kind. He had discovered a true liking for giving oral, and having the privilege of doing it for Mycroft was the realisation of a decade of fantasies. The way it filled his mouth and stretched his lips was just sublime, and Greg knew that he would be reliving this moment, with his mouth full and nose brushing the neat thatch of coppery red hair at the base of Mycroft’s cock, in his dreams for the rest of his life.

Mycroft slid the fingers of his lube-free hand into Greg’s hair, taking a gentle grip to guide Greg’s movements as he grew closer to climax. Greg avoided any experimentation with technique lest he add choking on cock to the crime of ejaculating in Mycroft’s face, and just let himself enjoy Mycroft’s pleasure as his lover climaxed with a quiet sound.

The moments that followed were pure bliss, as far as Greg was concerned; intimate and tender and absolutely perfect. He would have been content to stay where he was, with his head on Mycroft’s hip and the other man’s long, clever fingers stroking his hair, but he was too old to maintain the position for long. His knees cracked as he moved, as though seeking to remind Mycroft that he had saddled himself with a man past his best, but the warmth in Mycroft’s eyes pushed away the insecurities trying to force their way into his bliss. Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft’s hip. “Have you got a spare toothbrush?”

"Of course. But first…" Mycroft took Greg by the hand to guide him back up the bed and drew him into the kind of loving embrace that Greg had craved for his entire marriage. Mycroft sighed contentedly and kissed the side of Greg’s head. “Perfect. I love you to distraction.”

The desire to kiss Mycroft was almost overwhelming, but Greg couldn’t imagine that there was a man in London who would appreciate a kiss that tasted of his own cock less than Mycroft Holmes. “I can’t believe this isn’t a dream,” Greg said after several minutes had passed in a comfortable silence.

"I assure you that it is not." Mycroft kissed Greg’s forehead tenderly, and Greg could feel the affection and warmth behind it. “We ought to clean ourselves up.”

Recognising that Mycroft was right, Greg hummed. “Did I manage to get it in your hair?”

Mycroft chuckled and kissed Greg’s temple. "Yes; you were very thorough."

“I’m sorry,” Greg replied, cheeks burning. “That’s never happened before.”

"Please do not apologise. The... enthusiasm was very flattering."

Greg kissed Mycroft’s shoulder and eased himself up to sitting. There was a pleasant burn in his thighs, and he hoped that it would linger for a good while yet. Marauding orgasms aside, there wasn’t a single second of their first night together that Greg wanted to forget. He slid out of bed, enjoying Mycroft’s appreciative gaze as he stretched. “Best sex ever,” Greg declared happily as he ambled away in the direction on the en suite, swaying his hips in what he hoped was an alluring manner.

“Why that?” Mycroft asked, audibly perplexed, when Greg was most of the way to the en suite.

“Because sex is better with feelings, and I’m in love with you,” Greg explained patiently, assuming that this was another moment of a brother Holmes failing to grasp basic human nature.

“That's lovely, darling,” Mycroft replied, matching Greg’s patience as he swung his legs out of bed, “but I meant the cartoon character."

“Ah, that.” Greg grinned and twisted in an attempt to glance over his right shoulder at his own arse cheeks, where he knew a green-clad Martian giving the world the bird from beside the wreck of his spaceship resided. “Because he’s cool. He’s good company, Marvin.” He eyed Mycroft over his shoulder, grinned at the faint distaste in the other man’s expression, and wiggled his arse jauntily. “Do you want a closer look?”

"Perhaps another time.” Mycroft rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom, giving Greg’s rear a somewhat pained glance in passing.

Greg followed Mycroft into the bathroom, snickering to himself, and found a new toothbrush still in its packet alongside Mycroft’s things. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?”

“No,” Mycroft replied, amused, as he set about washing his hands thoroughly.

As he washed his own hands - twice - Greg caught sight of a clump of something suspicious in Mycroft’s hair. It took a moment for him to recognise that it was ejaculate, and that was it: the giggles were back. He tried to fight it, he really did, but it was absolutely hopeless.

Chapter Text

Despite the chiding look and shake of his head, there was laughter in Mycroft’s eyes, and Greg couldn’t help but grin as he started brushing his teeth. It was a messy business, brushing his teeth between fits of giggles, but if Mycroft minded he didn’t say so. He was thorough but quick, and gave Mycroft a hopeful look as he put the toothbrush down on the sink. “So, quick shower so I can wash my spunk out of your hair? I put it there, so it’s only fair that I clean it up.”

"By all means,” Mycroft smiled, a warmth in his eyes that set Greg aglow.

The shower in Mycroft’s en suite was even more impressive than the one in the main bathroom, and it was comfortably large enough for two. Greg followed Mycroft into the shower, his third of the day, and was immediately pulled into an embrace. He smiled as Mycroft’s hands wandered down his back to the swell of his arse and drew him closer, their bodies pressed together from thigh to chest. Greg had never kissed in a shower, and was disappointed when it wasn’t quite as sexy as he’d imagined: the warmth and naked Mycroft were definitely in its favour, but there was far more water in his mouth and eyes than he was entirely comfortable with, and the hundreds of emails he’d received about grab rails and shower seats since signing up for pension advice had left him a bit leery of shower sex, too.

“You are worrying very loudly,” Mycroft told him with a smile as he reached for the shower gel. “Relax.”

Greg obeyed, giving himself over to the moment. They were both far too old to be anywhere close to ready to go again, but the physical intimacy of being allowed to wash the man he loved and being washed in return was everything that Greg had been craving. Mycroft lingered over Greg’s shoulders and upper back, and Greg found himself plotting ways to display them to best advantage on their next date. Big Ben chimed the hour in the distance, bringing with it the realisation that ten minutes had passed, but there was no sign of the water pressure or temperature dropping. “I hope you’re ready for me to keep showing up to abuse your showers.”

“Please do,” Mycroft replied, audibly pleased at the prospect. “Now, I believe you said something about washing your spunk out of my hair.”

“Yeah, I did,” Greg replied, trying and failing to clamp down on a giggle. There was only a few inches’ difference in their heights, but it was enough that Greg could not easily reach Mycroft’s head without the other man bending. “I’ve never been the short one,” he confided as he gently lathered Mycroft’s fine hair with shampoo. It didn’t have a particularly strong scent, but what scent there was smelt clean, masculine, and reassuringly of Mycroft. He worked it into a lather slowly, paying particular care to the small area that had been matted with ejaculate, and rinsed it off before repeating the cycle, just to make sure that he’d got all of it. “All done.”

Once they had pried themselves out of the shower, Greg watched curiously as Mycroft went through the rest of his nighttime routine, finding that he was every bit as fastidious as Greg expected him to be. There was something about watching the precise, practised movements that Greg found to be almost soothing, and he already knew that he would never tire of spending time like this with Mycroft. It was only when Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow at him in the mirror, midway through moisturising his face, that Greg realised that he was no closer to being ready for bed himself. There was another set of the same toiletries he’d found in the main bathroom, and Greg found himself chuckling at just how very predictable he must have been for Mycroft to be this prepared. It was only then that he realised that he hadn’t planned for this, and was without nightwear. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some pyjamas I can borrow?” He could get away with wearing the same pants, but he didn’t want to think about how creased his shirt would be by tomorrow if he slept in it.

"I took the liberty of procuring some clothes for you,” Mycroft replied, colouring faintly. "It would hardly do for you to leave in the clothing in which you arrived."

“The walk of shame, you mean?” Greg grinned, touched, deciding that it shouldn’t come as a surprise given that there had been toiletries for him in both bathrooms, and a whole bedroom for his daughters. Bowled over again at the thought of the time and effort Mycroft had put into this, Greg crossed to wrap an arm around him from behind and kissed a cluster of freckles on his right shoulder. “You really are prepared for this.”

Mycroft smiled lovingly over his shoulder. "Naturally. I have given it a great deal of thought."

“Bed?” Greg asked, not even attempting to tone down his smile.

"Mm.” Mycroft preceded Greg into the bedroom without an iotum of self-consciousness and opened one of the wardrobes.

Greg slipped an arm around Mycroft’s slender back and peered into the wardrobe. Greg didn’t know much about clothes, but even he could recognise that there was a summer suit, a winter suit, another that he wasn’t sure about, jeans, cords, a handful of shirts, a brace of jumpers, at least three sets of pyjamas, enough underwear to see out a nuclear winter, a dressing gown, and more shoes that Greg would ever know what to do with. When it became clear that Mycroft was not going to offer any explanations, Greg glanced up at him and asked, “Which ones are mine?”

"All of them," came the somewhat puzzled reply, the ‘obviously’ unspoken but heard loud and clear.

One moment passed, and then another, before Greg could speak. “That’s…that’s a lot of clothes, Mycroft.” He reached out to touch a pair of pyjamas that probably cost more than everything he’d arrived wearing combined. “How much did all of this cost?”

"Hardly ‘a lot’, darling. The barest essentials only. And I haven't the slightest idea; my account is settled as a whole." Mycroft kissed Greg’s temple and crossed to one of three other wardrobes to hunt out his own pyjamas.

“I don’t expect you to buy me things,” Greg said, suddenly feeling very inadequate. He had a good salary, but he also had a mortgage, two children, and money-grabbing cow of an ex-wife: there was no way he’d be able to return gifts like this. “I can’t afford to buy you expensive things.”

"Why would I want you to?" Mycroft asked, no less baffled than he had been, as he stepped into his pyjama bottoms.

“Because I can’t just accept gifts like this without giving something back in return, and you’ve got very expensive taste,” Greg told him with a vague wave at the wardrobe. “This probably cost more than all of my clothes and most of the furniture in my flat.”

"Does that matter?" It was, as far as Greg could tell, a genuine question.

“It does if we’re going to have an equal relationship, because I can’t do that for you.” He turned to look at Mycroft, feeling distinctly troubled. “It feels like I’m taking advantage.”

Mycroft crossed the room in three strides, took Greg’s face in his hands, and kissed him. "Don't be absurd. You aren't capable of taking advantage of me."

“Says the man who’s just given me what’s got to be thousands of pounds of clothes after I came in his face.”

"I acquired them long before that, however." Mycroft stroked Greg’s cheekbones with his thumbs. "I have a lot of money, darling. I was raised in what one might loosely call the county set, I attended very expensive schools and a very expensive university. I like nice things. I like giving nice things to those for whom I care even more. The financial value is utterly irrelevant to me, but I recognise that being able to say that is a rare luxury. Please do not allow it to prey on your mind." He kissed Greg lovingly, alleviating some of Greg’s tension. "There are three reasons for which I said that you are incapable of taking advantage of me, and only one of those is your intrinsic decency. The second is that I am not inclined to be taken advantage of, and the third is that there is nothing that I would not willingly give you."

It took time for Mycroft’s words to sink in. Greg wasn’t used to being around someone for whom money really didn’t seem to mean anything, and he found that he had no reference for how to deal with it. Part of him wanted to refuse the generous gifts because such extravagance made him feel uncomfortable, but he found that the biggest part wanted Mycroft to be happy, and if giving him gifts made Mycroft happy, then who was he to refuse him?

“In that case, thank you for the clothes,” he conceded with a kiss. Then, feeling the need to lighten the air, he put on his best mock-innocent expression and asked, “Are people going to think I’m your bit of rough?”

"Of course not,” Mycroft deadpanned. “You are clearly my trophy boyfriend."

Greg grinned and wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s waist. “Your fifty year old himbo.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft replied with a puckish twinkle.

Seeing Mycroft so happy and relaxed set something deep inside Greg aglow, and he couldn’t resist another kiss. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of kissing Mycroft, not as long as there was breath left in him. He did, however, acknowledge the need for them to finish dressing for bed before the sun made an appearance, and eventually stepped back. Mycroft’s lips were delightfully puffy and his chin slightly red from Greg’s five o’clock shadow, and Greg decided it was one of the most endearing sights he’d ever seen. “I love you, and not just because you buy me nice things.”

"I know. And I will endeavour to keep my impulse-buying to a reasonable level," Mycroft promised, deftly buttoning his pyjama top. They were a dark blue with white piping on the edges, and happened to be an exact match for what Greg had imagined he would wear, when he’d allowed his mind to wander in that direction.

“And I’ll try not to get another tattoo on impulse,” Greg promised, watching as Mycroft slipped under the duvet. “I know you’re not keen on Marvin.”

Greg followed Mycroft into bed and settled on his side, not entirely sure what to do with himself. Mycroft had been comfortable enough cuddling on the sofa, but that didn’t mean that he would want a human hot water bottle in bed. He really shouldn’t be nervous about this bit, he decided, not when he’d already had the man’s cock in his mouth, but he was. Fortunately, Mycroft was apparently very adept at interceding just before the point at which Greg’s mind spiralled into full-blown over-thinking, and he held out his right arm. “Come here, darling.”

Not needing a second invitation, Greg scooted over until he was cuddled against Mycroft’s flank, head on his chest and an arm draped over his midriff. Warm and comfortable, it did not take long for the long day and longer night to start catching up with him. Mycroft seemed content with the cuddling and comfortable silence, so Greg made no attempt to fight it when his eyelids grew heavy. “Perfect,” he murmured, as his eyes drifted closed.

“Yes, you are,” came Mycroft’s gentle reply. Greg did not consciously hear him, but the words followed him into his dreams.