Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Stranger’s Room in the Diogenes Club was one of Greg’s favorite places. Not that he would ever say that out loud. To anyone.
Visiting there once a month for the better part of four year, it was comfortable. In the summer it was cool. He didn’t know how because he never saw any air con units and the building was old, and in the winter it was cozy. There was always a fire burning making the room feel welcome, a different atmosphere than the rest of the club which, while there were huge ornate fireplaces with fires roaring within them, always seemed cold and sterile. The Stranger’s Room, on the other hand, with its rust-colored carpeting and deep pine walls and gleaming wooden wainscotting, always felt warm.
How much of that was because of the man sitting behind the large wooden desk, Greg didn’t want to think about.
There was no way he could ever afford a membership to this place. He wouldn’t want a membership to this place. A middle-class copper in a building full of rich Tories and members of the peerage. Greg wasn’t even sure if the Prime Minister could get an invitation to request a membership.
Greg came at the invitation of Mycroft Holmes, and he would treasure those invitations, because, like almost everything else in his life, they could be ripped away in a blink of an eye.

It was Christmas Eve and the temperature had been steadily dropping since this morning. He hadn’t checked the weather and had only stepped out with his usual trench coat, leaving his gloves and scarf at home.  With everything calm this morning-the evening shift officers would have the most trouble with the Christmas Eve revelers leaving the pubs.
A little after lunch Greg had left the office, rubbing his hands at the now cold temperatures before shoving them into his pockets and waving down a taxi for the short trip to the Diogenes Club. The first flakes of snow began to fall as he stepped out of the taxi and into the silent halls of the club for his monthly meeting with Mycroft. In the beginning it had been updates about Sherlock- his well-being, the cold cases he worked on, the amount of strife he caused between Greg’s officers, the usual stuff.  Now, their conversations had slowly taken on a more personal tone, Greg venting about his officers, the kitchen sink in his flat clogging up, a particularly interesting to him case.
Last year on Christmas Eve, Greg had been at Baker Street realizing that his wife had been cheating again. This Christmas Eve the ink had been signed on his divorce for almost five months and he had a new flat. Sherlock was gone. People were still grieving. He’d be shocked when Mycroft called for him recently, inviting him to the club once again. But he’d gone. And continued to go every month like clockwork. Just like before.
Tonight, on Christmas Eve, Greg sat on the leather couch, warm and comfortable, a glass of Glenfiddich in his hand, eyes on the flames of the fireplace, sinking into his thoughts. Even the silence was comfortable.
This is how it should be, the thought came suddenly, with someone special. Silence should be comfortable and not sharp with anxiety and unspoken barbs. The easiness of being in the same room and not having to say anything at all.

Greg shook himself. Thoughts like that were what got him into trouble. Had gotten him attached to Daisy. He couldn’t fall into the same trap with Mycroft.
Outside the window, it was night but the sky was a bright grey with snow reflecting off of the ground. He’d been here too long, needed to get home. Not that there was anything for him at home.
Greg tipped back the glass, finishing off the last of the Glenfiddich. The ice clinked against the glass as it shifted and the sound of typing stopped, expectation suddenly filling the room.
“I should get going.” His voice sounded almost sacrilegious as it broke the silence. “The trains are going to be shutting down soon and the later it gets, the more crowded everything is going to be.”

“The temperature has dropped considerably in the time you’ve been here.”  Mycroft replied.  The laptop closed and he pushed back from his desk. Greg nodded as he crossed the room intent on setting the glass back on the drinks side table.
“Best I get going now before it gets any colder, Left my gloves and scarf at home like a knob.”

“Perhaps another drink?”
“I really shouldn’t.”  He did love a good glass of Glenfiddich when he had the opportunity, which wasn’t often. It was too rich for his pocket. Mycroft was already pouring two glasses. Greg looked out the dark window, could see fat flakes of snow on the small brick window ledge piling up, could only imagine what the streets looked like. A glass was handed to him. Startled by the quietness of the man, Greg took the offered glass without thinking and drank. Slowly, he gravitated to the window, looking out of it onto the street. Already the roads were covered in white. Beyond the club on the busier streets, he could see cars and buses driving slower than usual as they moved along. Mycroft moved to stand beside him, the two of them watching the snow cover more and more of London.
“I’ve appreciated your visit. It’s been nice to relax for a time.”
Greg’s smile was covered by the glass he drank from.  “Relax. You’ve been working since I walked in here. Even during the short time we did talk.”
“Detective Inspector, you don’t understand how relaxing it is to hear you speak. Even if I was working, the tenor of your voice is a balm after calls with the Prime Minister.”
He chuckled softly.  The ice clinked and he looked down at the amber liquid.
“I really should go.”
“The snow is increasing exponentially. There is a chance that soon the weather will be too tenuous for even the cabs.”

“Is that your official opinion as a minister of transportation?” The smile on Greg’s lips translated into the question. Mycroft merely shrugged as he drank.
“Best to stay in by the warmth of the fire.”
“The fire is warm.” He looked back at the orange glow and the warmth beckoning him over to his earlier place. “You should get home too if the weather is going to get that bad soon. Even more of a reason I should leave.”
“It looks deep out there. I would be grieved if you caught pneumonia because of your visit here.”


Something clicked in Greg’s brain. Snatches of musical notes played in his head. Last year, Greg had been married, despite the utter shit show it had been. He was faithful to his vows, always had been. Any crush he might have had on the man standing beside him had been tucked neatly into a chest in his mind, shoved in the back, in the dark and forgotten. At least he had tried to forget.
But this year. This year he was single. And that chest had been hauled out, flung open. He thought he had hidden it well enough, after all, a middle class copper and a member of the peerage? That wasn’t done. No matter what fairytale romance the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge may have placed in the hearts of the Commonwealth.
Flirting via musical lyrics?  This was a new one. Greg took another drink to steel his nerves then handed the glass back to Mycroft.
“Maybe just a half a drink more.”
The slight twitch at Mycroft’s lips, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he took the glass from Greg, their fingers brushing along each other in the exchange.
“Your fingers are as cold as ice, Detective Inspector. You should stand by the fire to warm them.”
“It’s Greg, you bastard.”  He laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls, getting caught in the thick rug. “Are you flirting by using the lyrics to Baby it’s Cold outside?”
“Flirting is such a vulgar term, Detective Inspector-“
“Greg.”
“Gregory.”
“I didn’t think you would know the song.”
“The song was composed in 1944. The popularity of the song alone makes it impossible for anyone to not have heard it at least once. More than once if one simply turns on the radio station or walks through any shop during the season.” Liquid poured, the glass was handed back to Greg, their fingers brushing once more. “Even if one was an utter luddite, which I am decidedly not, one would have heard this song.”
Greg knew the history of the lyrics. Knew the controversary, the explanations. It was hard not to with the women in his office debating if this song was predatory or an anthem to women taking ahold of their independence in the only way they could at the time. The same argument could be made for a bloke who, let’s say, had a crush on a posh man who looked good in suits that cost more than his entire salary and could move political leaders with a snap of his fingers.
His heart beat hard against his chest as he contemplated his next move. It was Christmas Eve. The dawn of a new year.  He was single. Sherlock was…gone -he refused to use the D-word, refused to believe it in his heart of hearts. Didn’t matter he had seen the casket, saw the grief in John and Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. The Guilt in Anderson and Donovan’s. Greg believed in Sherlock Holmes. But the man was gone. Why couldn’t he have this one thing in his life?  Try it out, see how it worked. It could be disastrous.
But it could also be so very good.

His tongue swiped at his lips, caught ice blue eyes tracking the path. Took a decided step closer and saw those same eyes widen imperceptibly.
“So if I said the fire was nice. Perhaps I could stay a little while more?”
He watched intently as Mycroft took in his words, discovered their meaning. The smile that was once a mere lift of the lips widened and became something sincere, warm. Victorious.
“I would say that it’s cold outside Gregory. You’d do so much better staying here by the fireplace instead of braving the weather. When the time comes, I would be happy to offer you a ride to…wherever you wished to go.”
Lifting his glass, Greg extended his finger and deliberately let it brush against Mycroft’s knuckle.
“Then, it’s best to stay in. It’s too cold outside.”