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“So, Greg… what’s it like being married to Mycroft?” John takes a sip of his beer and looks around at the comfortable yet expensive furnishings in what Greg calls ‘the cave’. “Besides the obvious perks, that is.”

Greg gives the match playing on the telly a long look, then shrugs at John. “Same as being married to any other bloke, I suppose.”

“That’s a terrible answer,” John laughs.

“It’s all I’ve got, mate.” Greg sighs. “There are so-called perks, like a gigantic telly, being able to watch any match I’ve a mind to, and my favourite beer always on hand, but I don’t see what the big deal is, honestly. I met a chap, fell for him, married him. End of.”

“End of, my arse. You were married to a woman -”

“Bi-sexuality is a thing, John.”

“Yeah, cheers, I know that. I’m just saying, one day, you’re married, then divorced, and you were spending weekends in Dorset, getting a leg over with some bird who ran the beach hotel, then you show up in Baskerville, and the next I hear, you’ve married Mycroft! I mean… kidnapping, all-seeing, all knowing, creepy Mycroft Holmes. Married to him, Greg. Living in this… mansion with him, and all that. Not just shagging him at the weekend.”

With a grin, Greg downs the rest of his beer, and stands up. “I do shag him at the weekend. And during the week, when I get a chance. Want another?”

“God, yes, since you’re really giving too much information,” John says, handing over his empty bottle. “And when you get back, you’re going to tell me how you, who never met a bird you didn’t want to shag on the first date, ended up married to Sherlock Holmes’ powerful, pain-in-the-arse brother.”

“Yeah, fine, fine… but I guess I’d better offer you something to eat, because it’s a long story, and the way you’re going on, you’re going need some food so you don’t swoon. You like shepherd’s pie? Or are you good with the crisps?”

John frowns. “You made shepherd’s pie?”

With a blush, Greg ducks his head. “No, ah… the, ah… housekeeper made it in case I got hungry while watching the match.”

“Housekeeper,” John repeats.

“Yeah, well… You want some or not? It’s really good. She’s from Devon, the housekeeper – name’s Gail, and she’s been with Mycroft for a bit, but now that we’ve married, she doesn’t come round to cook as much, just on weekends to make Sunday roast, but when she-”

“Greg,” John cuts in, “it’s all fine. Really. I’m not judging you… I’m just… well, you have to admit this is a bit of a turn up, you marrying Mycroft Holmes, having a housekeeper, and living in a bit of luxury. I’m just curious to know how it came about. That’s if you don’t mind telling me…?”

“Of course not,” Greg replies, and lets out a breath of relief. “Just didn’t want you to think it’s about all this.” He waves a hand at the room. “It’s good and all, but not why I’m here, you know?” At John’s nod, he smiles. “So, I’ll dish up some food, and tell you all about how me and Mycroft got together. And just so you know, it was Sherlock who put us on to each other. I don’t think he really meant to, but on some level, I think he figured that we’d be good for each other, despite our… differences. Yeah… your little consulting detective is a pretty good matchmaker, when he puts his mind to it.”

***

I jog up the steps at Baker Street, case file in hand. Sherlock promised to look over the details to see what I’ve missed, which is everything important, according to him. He’s bored because John’s off at a conference, or his latest girlfriend’s flat or something for a few days. And since a bored Sherlock makes me nervous, I figured I’d keep London safe by offering a case to keep him busy.

At the top of the steps, I see Sherlock sitting on the sofa, frowning at his brother, who is seated in John’s chair.

“Ah, here you are, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, and he sounds like he’s trying not to break out in to laughter. “Fate has provided a solution to your problem.”

Mycroft looks over at me like I’m something he’s stepped in. “I beg your pardon?”

Sherlock groans and flings a hand in my direction. “You are in need of a man. Gaylord is a man.”

“Really, Sherlock?” I sigh, and drop the case file on the table near his cup of… something that looks like tea, but is probably piss or something just as foul. I know better than to ask, though. “Gaylord is the most ridiculous name you've come up with so far. Now… you said if I got here in twenty minutes, you would look at the case and give me your opinion. I made it in fifteen.”

“I don’t have ‘opinions’; I deal in facts.” Sherlock grabs the file, and looks through it. “I suppose I can assist you, Lestrade. But first, my… brother (and he says it like he’s just smelled something off) would like to ask you something.”

“And he can’t speak for himself?” I turn to Mycroft. “Mr. Holmes?” And yes, I call him that. It’s not like he’s ever invited me to call him anything else. (Though when I’m in the shower having a wank, he’s Mycroft. Hopefully, he’s not got my shower bugged, and will never know.)

***

“Wait one second.” John sets down the forkful of shepherd’s pie that was headed to his mouth, and gapes at Greg. “You’ve had a wank in the shower while thinking about Mycroft? Before you married him?”

“Yes,” Greg says with a shrug. “Have you seen him?”

“Mycroft Holmes? I have seen him. He’s…”

“My husband, so watch it.”

“No, no… it’s… he’s… you had a wank?”

“You’re very interested in me having a wank, John…”

“I’m not!” John rubs at the back of his neck, feeling the heat of the blush that’s creeping up his collar. “I mean, you’re not a bad looking man, but I’m just… Mycroft?”

“Yes, Mycroft. Long, long legs, pretty freckles… you’ve only seen him kitted out in suits, but let me tell you, he’s got the greatest arse! Round and pert, and bouncy when I-”

John holds up his finger in warning. “No.”

Greg shakes himself, and focuses on John. “Sorry. Are you going to let me finish or not?”

“Go on, then,” John sighs, “but not too many details about wanking, or Mycroft’s… whatever, yeah?”

“Don’t be a prude, John. You were in the army…you mean to tell me you’ve never had a wank thinking about some of those hot new recruits?”

John blushes. “Nope.”

“Liar.”

“Just go on, and leave off about Mycroft’s arse.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing…” Greg lets out a lascivious chuckle, then clears his throat at John’s stern look. “Right. So as I was saying…”

***

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft’s tone is crisp and formal, as ever. “How are you this evening?”

“Fine. And it’s Greg. In case you’ve deleted my first name as well.”

“I would never do anything as trite as delete something,” he sniffs. “I am well aware of your name, Gregory.”

Of course the pompous git would say my name like that. Reminds me of those snooty toffs from fifth form, with their bullying one minute, wanting you to suck their cocks in the cleaner’s cupboard in the next. “Just Greg, thanks.”

“Your parents named you Gregory,” he says with a tisk. “Gregory Allain Francois Lestrade, in fact. Named for your mother’s favourite film star, your maternal grandfather, and your father’s brother, a former police constable in Surrey, who was wounded in the line of duty.”

“Oh, great… you’ve done your homework. But if you don’t mind moving it along bit – I’ve got a case, and need to get back to it.” It’s rude of me, but him being all-knowing and smug really grates on my nerves.

“Ah… already put out?” His tone has shifted from crisp and formal to sleek and oily, and I hate that tone even more. “What have I done to earn a place of dishonour in your Holmes hierarchy?”

“Well, for one, you’re being insincere. I’m not as sharp as you lot, but I’ve interviewed my fair share of suspects, and know bullshit when I hear it.” I take a quick, deep breath, and let it out slowly. “So, let’s just cut to the chase, shall we? What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock snorts, but thankfully doesn’t comment.

“While I am insulted to be put in league with your ‘suspects’,” Mycroft says with a primness I don’t think any other bloke could pull off, “I won’t belabour our interaction, since you are obviously in a snit. I was wondering if you had plans for Friday evening.”

I open my mouth, then snap it shut. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t him asking that. Maybe I misheard him. “What?”

“I find repeating myself so very tedious.” Mycroft looks at Sherlock, and shakes his head. “Goldfish.”

“Best of a bad lot, really.” Sherlock chucks the folder back on the table, and throws a smirk Mycroft’s way. “And you can’t afford to be picky at this late date, can you?”

“Stating the obvious, Sherlock.” Mycroft studies his nails for a moment, then looks at me again. “I am in need of a companion on Friday evening, Gregory. Would you like to accompany me to dinner?”

“You what?” I feel a flush creeping up my neck at the… shit. Mycroft Holmes just asked me on a date. “You want me to go out with you? Seriously?”

“‘Go out’ is such a childish term, and is far from what I’m asking,” he huffs. “Are you free?”

Oh, hell. Shower wanks aside, Mycroft Holmes is far off from the type of bloke I’d go after. Not that I didn’t feel a bit of a tug toward him from our first meeting, but I’m not stupid enough to think he’d be up for getting hot and sweaty between the sheets. At least not with me.

At that first meeting, there was just something that made me want him, even though I was cuffed to a chair, and he was being menacing and all. It was a bit hilarious, because we both knew that he had no intention on harming me, despite him threatening to do just that. I was sold as soon as the blindfold was taken off, and I saw him. Might have been the power, or the icy demeanor that got me, but I try not to analyse it too much. I do love a challenge, and can only wish that I could be the one to unleash all that passion hiding under those expensive suits, but he’s way out of my league. I can hardly see him hanging out in the pub, or watching a match, so I’ve put him firmly in the ‘no’ category.

Doesn’t stop me from thinking him more than I probably should. Imagining him, with his pale, freckled skin, and long, long legs stretched out on a soft bed with dark, silky sheets, watching me with those intense blue eyes really gets me going. I think about this a lot, but I know better than to think he’d be interested in me in that fashion. He’s probably not truly interested in anyone, for that matter, since he enjoys toying with people, and wouldn’t know how to have a real relationship if it slapped him on the arse. And I’m no glutton for punishment, so… “No.”

“No?” How he manages to frown and lift his eyebrows at the same time is a mystery.

“Thank you for asking, though.” I figure a bit of politeness will go a long way toward him not kidnapping me, and leaving me tied up in a dark, dank warehouse near Battersea. “I’m flattered. Really.”

Sherlock snorts again. “Strike one.”

“Hush, Sherlock,” Mycroft admonishes, then to my surprise, he smiles at me. “Gregory, I haven’t mentioned any details.”

“You haven’t,” I shrug. “But we’ve been dealing with each other for seven years, and in all that time, you’ve never given me the time of day, except when it suits your purposes. So, you asking me to go somewhere with you is not a good thing. Not at all.”

“And why would that be?” he demands.

“Well.” I take a deep breath, and mentally kiss my arse goodbye. “You’re… well, ah… you’re a bit creepy, Mr. Holmes, and – you smiling like that is rather sc -”

“Mycroft.”

“What’s that?”

“My name,” he says. “If you’re going to break my faults down to the lowest common denominator, we should be less formal, don’t you think?”

I duck my head in shame, because it isn’t my intention to offend him, just… “Mister… Mycroft… it’s not my intention to insult you. All I’m saying is that it’s a bit out of the blue, you asking me to go somewhere with you. You’re a bit… much, with the kidnapping, CCTV watching, damp warehouses in the middle of the night, ominous phone calls, and all sorts of insanity. It’s no wonder you can’t get a date.”

“I beg your pardon.” Mycroft straightens in the chair, and gives me the haughtiest look I’ve ever seen. “I can ‘date’ anyone I choose, should I deign to do so.”

“Right.” Sherlock laughs, and takes up the file again. “Strike two.”

“I’m asking you,” Mycroft continues, “because you’ve already been thoroughly vetted, and I've been advised that you have an amazing capacity for pretending, which will come in handy in acting as my… ah, boyfriend.”

“Your what? Oh, no... I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well, if I’m to convince my mother to stop trying to marry me off, I should be in a steady relationship, correct?”

“But-“

“It’s not as if you’re seeing anyone right now. Well, not since the shocking discovery that the woman you’d been communicating with through the, ah, Cuddles for Coppers dating website was actually a man. Not that it bothered you in that sense – just the deception, right? Seems that you would be eager to be wined and dined, since the man in question turned out to be wanted for forgery.”

“Oh, you can just sod off,” I snap, embarrassed that my business is so easily accessible by this family of nutters. “I’ve got work to do, so if we’re done here…I hope not to talk to you any sooner than I have to.” I turn to Sherlock, whose shoulders are shaking as he laughs behind the folder. “Sherlock, are you done with the file?”

“Wait.” Mycroft gets to his feet smoothly, and takes a few steps toward me. “Please.”

“What?”

“This is… well, to be honest, I didn’t expect to be turned down.”

“After an invitation like that?” I laugh, sharp and loud. “Who wouldn’t want to go out with you?”

He ducks his head, and manages a sheepish look. “Apologies. It’s… I’m out of practice.”

“Practice?” Sherlock scoffs. “Strike three. I do believe you’re out, brother mine.”

Mycroft ignores him and raises his eyebrows at me. “You were saying..?”

“Rudeness aside,” I say, “you have to admit that this is all a bit…” I wave a hand in the air. “Surreal. A man I’ve never even had a coffee with is asking me to go on an outing with him. On Valentine’s Day. By basically calling me a loser. Very flattering, that.”

“Valentine’s Day?” Mycroft says, and his voice has gone up at least two octaves. “That’s even worse. Mummy will… oh, dear lord… Lestrade… Gregory, you must help me. I’ll make it well worth your while.”

Best to keep it simple. “No, thank you.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure. Or any type of recompense for your time.”

“You’re an important man, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure there’s a name or two in your black book that is on standby should you need her. Or him. Them.” Shit. I clear my throat again. “Whoever. I'm not judging.”

“It sets a bad example for me to abuse my...ah, position in such a fashion. It would make me vulnerable, and I do try hard not to mix business with my personal affairs.”

“There’s no one from that odd club you frequent that would go with you?” I ask, feeling a bit sorry for him.

“Heavens, no,” he laughs. “I would be in your debt should you consent to do this favour, Gregory.” He frowns right after he says it, like it left a bad taste in his mouth. “There aren’t many who can say that I am in their debt, mind you.”

“Probably had them killed,” I mutter, then shake my head to move it off that train of thought. Mycroft Holmes owing me a favour is tempting. I mean, despite him protesting that his position in the government is minor, I know it’s not, and he knows I know. “Not saying yes, but what sort of date are we talking about?”

“Oh, god…” Sherlock groans, and turns to press his face against the back of the sofa.

“Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with,” he says, and the oily smile is back. “Just… well. It’s rather hard to explain…”

“Use small words, and stop smiling like a villain.” I fold my arms across my chest and wait.

“My parents are in town, and once again, to appease my mother, I’ve promised to take them for dinner and dancing at The Ritz. It did not occur to me that it was Valentine’s Day, as such things hold no weight with me, but my mother obviously knew, and has threatened to invite a date along for me because she is an evil, evil woman.”

“Mrs. Connor’s niece?” Sherlock turns back to face us, smirking at his brother. “She must be about sixty now, and still can’t manage to complete a word search.”

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. “I assured Mummy that I did indeed have a date because I assumed Andrea – that’s Anthea to you, Gregory – would be free.”

“On Valentine’s Day?” I laugh. A woman that good looking probably has dates to spare. “Please.”

“Again,” Mycroft says, “I didn’t realise it was Valentine’s Day, or that my assistant had a… boyfriend.” He wrinkles his nose as though the very idea of his assistant daring to have a life is offensive. “If you accompany me, Gregory, I can kill two birds with one stone. Appease my mother, and let her know that I am not interested in… “

“Women?” I supply helpfully.

“Mrs. Connor’s niece.” He’s blushing, and it’s rather sexy, that. “And, well, yes...that is, I have never discussed my…preferences or any such thing with my parents, but I’m certain they are aware.”

“Maybe not, with the setting you up with a woman thing.” I sigh. “So, you’re asking me to be your pretend boyfriend, double date with your parents, and you’re going to come out at the same time. On Valentine's Day. You’re ballsy, I’ll give you that.”

“That it is Valentine’s Day is irrelevant.” Mycroft says firmly. “And I’m not ‘coming out’. Who I choose to bring to dinner is not a statement regarding my sexuality.”

“What sexuality?” Sherlock says to no one in particular.

“Oh, do shut up, Sherlock.” Mycroft looks at me. “Greg… Gregory, if you would just listen to reason, you’ll see that it is in your best interest to agree to assist me.”

“In my best interest? Right. You don’t even like me,” I remind him. “You shoo me away like a fly every damned time I have to trudge to your office. Very insulting, considering I’m the one you trust to look after your pain in the arse brother. And now you need me, you’re all honey-voiced and on best behaviour.”

“Yes, well…” He lets out a small sigh, and tries to look contrite. “I’m just not all that comfortable around… people. I find them dull and uninspiring.”

Like that’s not oozing from every pore in his body. “So you understand why I’m going to pass then, yeah?”

Mycroft Holmes standing there, blinking rapidly in confusion has to be the highlight of my day. I don’t suppose many people refuse him.

“You only get three strikes, if memory serves.” Sherlock flops back on the sofa and puts the file folder over his face. “See yourselves out, please. I’ve got experiments to complete.”

“Bugger,” Mycroft huffs. “I don’t mean that I find you dull or uninspiring, Gregory. I could have asked anyone; that I’m asking you should be a sign, correct?”

“Of the apocalypse, yes.” I take up my file. “Well… this has been quite the visit, but I’ve got to go. Thank you for the invitation, Mycroft. I’ll talk to you later, Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s firm hand on my arm keeps me from walking past him. “Gregory… you’re an intelligent man, and I’m sure you’re an excellent conversationalist if the subject is kept to things within your ken. Father will adore having someone to talk to.”

I peel his hand off my arm, and give his shoulder a pat. “You don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?”

“Doing what?”

“You’re very insulting, Mycroft. You might do well to be set up with some mindless bird. Might teach you some manners.”

“Oh, rubbish,” he says. “I’ve got manners to spare. And I don’t care if Mummy brings Miss Universe. I’ll date who I see fit.”

“Brave words, Mikey.” Sherlock laughs. “Our mother calls him that. And he can’t stop her because she is not one to be refused.”

Mycroft looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. “As you say, Bunny-boy.”

“Oh, this is priceless,” I say. “Little Mikey and Baby Bunny. I should be recording this.”

“No one has ever recorded me and lived to tell the tale,” Mycroft says ominously.

“And here I was feeling sorry for you.” I can manipulate with the best of them. I am a copper, after all.

“Gregory…” Mycroft sighs again. “I do apologise.”

“I wish I could help you, really. But I can’t imagine trying to pretend to be your date around your parents. Aren’t they… well, like you and Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s laugh is a bit hollow. “Heavens, no. My parents are frightfully ordinary. Well, Mummy has an extraordinary capacity for figures, and has written a book or two on the subject, but she doesn’t like to talk about that. And Father is… well, he’s just… kindly and is a good listener, and he, ah, is utterly besotted with my mother. My parents love plain food, dancing, horrid theatre, action films, and all those things that ordinary persons enjoy doing. I do believe you will have a good time, should you consent to going.”

That their parents are ‘ordinary’ surprises me a bit, and I wonder if they’re adopted, or government experiments, or… worse. And that they both seem a bit embarrassed by having ‘ordinary’ parents piques my curiosity. “Well, I am interested, if for nothing more than to meet your parents. What’s in it for me?”

“Dinner, dancing, and a date on Valentine’s Day. Better than how you spent it last year, I’m sure. ”

That I spent it getting a leg over with my nephew’s art teacher in the school’s cleaning cupboard while chaperoning a Valentine’s Day dance is not exactly a secret (she was shrieking so loudly, one of the students thought she was being murdered and came to help her), but I don’t like him using it against me. “Yeah, well… just because that ended badly…”

“Badly hardly covers it,” Mycroft says with amusement. “You were banned from attending school activities, and Ms. Harris was put on suspension for a week. Your nephew was able to use your prowess to his advantage, so no harm there, but honestly, Detective Inspector, you are nothing short of a disaster when it comes to relationships. You should be jumping at the chance to move up the dating ladder, so to speak.”

“Now look, you pompous arse… just because there have been a few missteps doesn’t mean I need any fucking charity from the likes of you,” I say, adding a bit of icy venom to my tone, “so you can take your offer and shove it up your-“

“And that’s you told, Mycroft,” Sherlock cuts in. “You are horrid at this, no doubt because you spend so much time sitting silently in that mausoleum you call a club that you’ve forgotten how normal people interact.”

Mycroft purses his lips, then ducks his head. “Apologies, Gregory,” he says softly, looking up at me through his long lashes. “That was quite rude of me. Please forgive me. I suppose I am rather hopeless at this. It is, as Sherlock says, new to me.”

And damn if it’s not so sexy and coquettish, that I can’t help but smile in response. “It’s… well, it’s not all right, but I’m going to give you a pass this time.”

Sherlock makes a strangled noise, and flops back against the sofa cushions.

“Please tell me what I can do to convince you to accompany me, Gregory?”

I know he’s playing me, but damned if it’s not the sexiest thing, him focusing those blue eyes on me, almost begging me to do him a favour. “What’s on offer if I go with you?”

“My resources are unlimited,” he says with a bright smile. “The world shall be your oyster.”

“Well…” I hedge. “It is short notice, and I may have to work…”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Lestrade!” Sherlock growls. “You’ve already made up your mind to do, so please stop this back and forth… flirting, and just say yes. He won’t let up until you do. He will interrupt your insipid football matches with messages, CCTV cameras will follow you everywhere, and trust me, he will re-programme you car’s computer system to beg you to give in. Your GPS will drive you to places he specifies. Do you want that?”

I turn to Mycroft. “Really? That sounds a bit… ah, mental.”

He has the good graces to look embarrassed. “My brother is prone to exaggeration, Detective Inspector. You are free to say no without fear of recrimination or stalking. I do wish you would give it careful consideration, though.”

“I suppose I could do worse than spend an evening with a handsome bloke on Valentine’s Day.”

“You need your eyes examined, Gawain.”

“It’s Gregory, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s cheeks are tinged pink, but he manages to smile at me. “I appreciate your willingness to accompany me.”

“Yeah, yeah…” I need to have a drink. Maybe a few drinks. And the sooner I can get away from these two nutters, the sooner I can pull myself together. “When, where, and what to wear?”

“On second thought, no, Mycroft.” Sherlock sits up and fixes his brother with an icy stare. “This will not end well. He’s the only DI that will work with me. And if you hold true to form… and one need only to point to the incident with the cellist from the –“

“An unfortunate incident,” Mycroft cuts in sharply, “but hardly my fault. It was a long time ago, and I have come to learn how to treat my things.” He grimaces and clears his throat. “That is, no harm will come to the Detective Inspector.”

“Just can’t stop yourself, can you?” I shake my head. “I’m not a thing, or Sherlock’s personal DI. So you know.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft soothes over Sherlock’s snort of dissent. “And I do apologise for the insinuation. My assistant will provide the details, and as an apology for insinuating that you are of no value, I’ll send over an assortment of clothing from which you can choose.”

“I have clothes.”

“Yes, I’ve seen them. I’ll be in touch, Detective Inspector.” He takes up his umbrella, and is down the stairs before I can say anything else.

“And I thought you were bad,” I say to Sherlock.

“He must like you.”

“What?”

“That was him being sociable. And he seems to be oblivious to the fact that you fancy him. I was certain he knew.”

“I don’t fancy your brother.” And I know he knows I’m lying. “Well, not like you think.”

“I could point out the obvious facts, but I find it nauseating to think of you and my brother in any context, so take your file, and go and question the husband’s brother. If he owns a ping hammer, you have your man.”

“We already questioned the brother,” I protest. “He has an alibi.”

“Provided by the blind aunt, who may or may not have heard him come home before Coronation Street aired. Rubbish alibi. You will regret this, Gary. And I’m going on record to state that I will not be attending your wedding, or civil ceremony or whatever he convinces you to do.”

“It’s Greg, damn it, and I’m not…” I frown at him, and draw in a breath to say a few choice words, but decide leaving is best. “I’ll let you know what happens with the brother, yeah?”

***

“Oh, god,” John groans as he eats the last bite of shepherd’s pie. “That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten. You think Mycroft would send her over to Baker Street on occasion?”

“You have Mrs. Hudson.” Greg pushes his plate away and smiles. “She makes a good stew.”

“Fine, be selfish,” John laughs. “I can’t believe you agreed to Mycroft’s proposal.”

“Having Mycroft Holmes owe you a favour is not to be taken lightly, John.” Greg pops a chip in his mouth, and chews it thoughtfully. “Besides, I already admitted I found him attractive. I was hoping I could get a leg over.”

“With Mycroft.”

“Yes. Why are you having such a hard time with me being attracted to him?”

“I… well, you are married to him now, and this is going to sound a bit… well, isn’t he… ah, cold? Fake? I get the impression that he’s very odd – odder than Sherlock – and that he’s all ice.”

“Part of the attraction, I suppose.” Greg smiles fondly. “And he’s not all ice, John. Or fake. It’s just… it’s like Sherlock, saying he’s a sociopath. You know he isn’t, despite appearances. They do it because it’s safer.”

“Yes, but he kidnapped you, cuffed you to a chair, and threatened to hurt you.” John frowns. “You’re married to a berk.”

“He cares about Sherlock is all,” Greg reasons. “He didn’t do that to you?”

“No. He did a trick with the CCTV, and some ringing phones, and then a car picked me up. Took me to some wet warehouse, and there he was, looking like John Steed, with his bloody umbrella. Only good thing about that was meeting Anthea.”

“She wasn’t anywhere around when I met him. I suppose he knew I wouldn’t get in a car, so he had his henchmen snatch me up on my way home from a mate’s stag do. Still mad about the jacket they ruined, the bastards.” Lestrade laughs. “I think that’s when all my lusting started. Maybe I like role-playing, or being roughed up, but-“

“Greg, please,” John huffs. “There are some things I just do not want to know about you. Or Mycroft.”

“You asked for the story of how I came to be married to Mycroft. It’s not all deductions and chasing murdering cabbies, John.”

“Yeah, yeah… I know, but I don’t want to think of you and Mycroft and role-playing. It’s just…”

“Yeah, all right,” Greg sighs. “You could be a bit more open-minded, you know. Might loosen you up a bit.”

“I’m loose as a goose.” John downs a healthy swallow of beer, and smiles. “I am glad that you’re comfortable enough with me to share all the salacious details, though.”

“It’s just payback for all the details you’ve provided whenever you’ve gotten a leg over with one of your women, yeah? I mean, you’re a good bloke, for the most part. Didn’t see how you put up with Sherlock on a daily basis until I married Mycroft, so I’ve got to tip my cap to you.”

“The Holmeses are an insane lot,” John agrees. “But Sherlock isn’t as civilised as Mycroft, I’m sure.”

“ Mycroft's a decent chap, all in all. But when it comes to dating… he’s all about the control.”

“Well, yeah, I figured.”

“You have no idea, John. And neither did I…”

Chapter Text

 

“So what happened next?” John sits back against the couch cushions, and puts his feet on the coffee table. He frowns, then removes his feet. “Wouldn’t want to be sent off to Russia for putting my feet on the furniture.”

 Greg laughs. “The Mycroftian Treatise doesn’t apply in this room. It’s all mine. Put your feet up, drool on the sofa, sit around in your pants.” 

“Wow, really? You two are well-suited.” 

“Not at first, because Mycroft Holmes thinks he’s God, Christ, and the Holy Ghost in a bespoke suit…” 

***

I’m walking back from the coffee stand with Sally when my mobile rings. I shift the bag with my donut in it to my other hand, and answer. “Lestrade.”

“Detective Inspector.”

“Mycroft.” I shove the phone into the crook of my neck and slow down a bit. His purring tone – rolling r’s and pitch perfect – has me smiling. “It’s Greg, remember? What can I do for you?”

“Ah, of course, Gregory. I need to speak with you. Are you agreeable to meeting for coffee?"

I look at the coffee in my hand, then at Sally. “Ah, well, I’ve just-“

“Give your watered down coffee and stale donut to the homeless young woman near the light post, and get in to the car.”

“What?” I spy the young woman in question just as a black Jaguar glides to stop at the kerb. “What’s this about?” 

He sighs softly. “Get in the car, Gregory. Please.”

“Oh, come on,” I groan. “You can’t just expect me to skive off just like that.”

“Unfortunately, this is the only free time I’ll have until Friday, so yes, I do expect you to meet with me, which, for the record, is not skiving. The Superintendent has already been advised that you will be away from the office for the better part of an hour. Please make your way to the car.”

He rings off before I can respond. I huff out a breath, and shake my head. I am seriously questioning my decision to go along with this madness.  

Sally frowns as I hand the coffee and donut to the scraggly woman leaning against the light post. “What are you doing?”

“Going insane, Sally.”

“And you have to do it now.” She shakes her head. “We’ve got to go over those statements, and –”

“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. If you don’t hear from me, tell Sherlock to find me, yeah?” 

“What?” She’s used to my madness, but sometimes, it gets to her.  

“Ignore me,” I say, moving toward the car. “Be back later.” I watch her go, then open the back door of the car, and stick my head in.

“Good morning, Detective Inspector,” the driver says. “Mr. Holmes sent me.” 

“Yeah, all right.” I slide in the back seat, and go to pull the door shut, only to find that there are no inside handles. “What the hell?” I move across the seat to get out, but the door closes before I can stop it. “Oi! Open the door!” 

The driver shrugs. “Orders to take you to meet Mr. Holmes, Detective Inspector. Please relax; it’s a short ride to your destination.” 

“And where is that?” 

“I’m not at liberty to say. Mr. Holmes does like his secrets, sir.” 

Oh, like I don’t know that. Bastard. I look at the driver’s shoulders and realise they’re as wide as a lorry. “Well, what’s your name, then? I like to be on friendly terms with my kidnappers. Maybe you won’t hit a mate as hard.” 

He laughs and meets my eyes in the mirror. “I’m Callum. Been with Mr. Holmes for ages. Not much fight left in me, except if things go sour. You try, I put you down. That’s the extent of my prowess.” 

“But you did do a bit of boxing in your day, right?” No mistaking the broken nose, damaged cartilage around his eyes, and fists that look like hams.

“That I did,” he smiles. “Callum the Crusher, they called me. But none of that now, Detective Inspector. Mr. Holmes says fetch you, I fetch you. Almost there, sir.” 

I sigh and try to relax. It’s not every day a bloke gets a ride in a fancy car. Blacked out windows, plush seats, no stopping for traffic… it would be perfect if I weren’t irritated. Bloody Holmeses.  

***

About twenty minutes later, we stop. I look out of the window and frown. “Bloody hell.” I suppose on some level The Diogenes is better than a drafty warehouse in the middle of nowhere, but only just. I hate this place, with its snobbery and silence. But, if his is where His Nibs wants to meet, I have no choice.

The car door swings open, and I slide across the seat. “Thank you, Callum. Pleasure meeting you.”

“I’ll be back for you when you’re done, don’t worry.”

“Oh.” Hadn’t thought of the ride back to work. “Right, see you in a bit, then.”

The door closes, and he’s off. I take a deep breath, and head up the steps.

*** 

A silent steward ushers me through the silent main room, down a corridor, stopping in front of a heavy wooden door. The steward taps, then opens the door. He gestures me in, then closes the door behind me.

Inside, Mycroft is seated at a small dining table, with a tea service on a cart on the side. “Hello, Gregory. Good of you to come. Have a seat.” 

“Not like I had much choice,” I say, taking a seat in the plush chair across from him. “What’s this about?” 

He frowns and pours coffee into the delicate china cup near my right hand. “I’m sorry?” 

“Why did you have your heavy bring me here?” 

“My ‘heavy’? Ah, Callum. He’s not my heavy, just my driver. And I told you on the phone that we would be having coffee. You are horrid at listening, Gregory.” 

I take a sip of the steaming, hot coffee and try not to moan at how good it tastes. “I thought it was a euphemism or code. The car you sent had a man with shoulders the size of a building, and there were no handles on the car door. What else was I to think?” 

“I asked you for coffee so that we could get to know each other before the evening with my parents,” he says, watching me intently. “It won’t do for us to not be comfortable with each other.” 

“Ah. Well, you could have said.” 

“I asked you to coffee.” 

“You didn’t ‘ask’ me anything,” I counter. His eyes flash, and I can’t help but notice just how blue they are. “Has anyone ever told you that you have lovely eyes?” 

“Ah…” He blinks rapidly – that’s twice now – and shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge.” 

“They are quite lovely. Blue as the sky. Nice with the ginger lashes you’ve got.” 

“I…” He clears his throat. “Yes. Thank you.” 

I love that I can throw him off kilter. “So now we’re a bit more comfy with each other. Your turn to compliment me.”

“Well." He taps a long finger against his lips, thinking. I try not be insulted that it's taking so long. “You are… that is, you are good at handling Sherlock.”

I laugh. “Not bad, but next time, make it more personal, hm?" I look around the room, taking in his overcoat, briefcase, and file folders on the desk behind us. “Busy day?”

“No more than usual.” He sits back and sips at his coffee. “I abhor small talk.” 

“You invited me… no, strong-armed me into coming. If we’re not going to make small talk, we could talk about what it is you do for a living.”

“I occupy a minor position in the British government.” He gives that tight, smug smile again. “As has been said approximately seven times before.”

“Approximately?”

“I know the exact number, but it is inconsequential.”

I drink more of the coffee and give my best solicitous smile. “We both know that there is nothing about you, or your so-called ‘position’ that is minor. Your whole demeanor suggests that you know all the secrets.”

“Sherlock laments your lack of intelligence often, Detective…, ah, Gregory. It seems that he hasn’t taken the time to stop and listen to you. I won’t make the same mistake. Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

Score one for me. “Right. How old are you?”

“Old enough, I assure you.” He sighs, and sets his cup back on the dainty saucer. “You’re the oldest of five, correct? And all your names begin with G?”

“Yes… Greer, my sister, is the youngest, then there’s Gabriel, Grant, Gordon, and me. Called myself G until I was twenty. It’s what my warrant card says, too, which is probably why Sherlock can’t remember my first name.”

“No, but in your mind, that version is better than that he just didn’t bother to learn your name. Rest assured, you are important to him, Gregory.”

“Yeah, not worried about where I fit into Sherlock’s hierarchy of affections, since I’m the one who keeps his mind occupied and off the drugs, remember?” I grin as the smugness drains from his face. “So, what’s your full name, then? I know from the early arrest warrants that Sherlock’s is William.”

“Mycroft Holmes is my full name,” he sniffs.

“No,” I counter. “Your brother’s got a mouthful of names; I can’t imagine your parents started small, and worked their way up. Embarrassed by it?”

“Not at all. I am merely concerned about how I should behave at your funeral should I tell you. What do you think - friendly mourner, or a more detached, casual acquaintance?” 

“That’s such a silly cliché – I’ll have to kill you.” I snort out a laugh. “You could bloody well try, I suppose.”

“There is no try, Gregory.”

I blink at that. “Wait… you’ve seen Star Wars?”

“I am not… unfamiliar with some aspects of popular culture. Needs must.” He clears his throat again. “This is a very strange conversation.”

“Yes, and I’m enjoying it. Great coffee, and I’m learning a lot about you.” I down the rest of the coffee, and help myself to another cup. “So, have you given any thought to our relationship? Are we mad for each other, you know, shagging all the time, or are we calm and cool?” I say this with the best cheek I can muster, to see if I can shake him up a bit more.

His coffee cup clanks against the saucer. “I’m sorry?”

“The best way to get your alibi smashed is to keep your partner in the dark,” I say, picking one of the tiny sammies from the tray, and having a small bite. “God, this is the best sammie I’ve ever had.” I shove the rest of it in my mouth with a moan. “What was it?”

“Not a ‘sammie’, certainly,” he says haughtily. “That is Lapsang Souchong Smoked Tea-infused chicken with mayonnaise and lingonberry jam on potato bread. As you seem particularly… fond… of the combination, I can have some packed for you to take back to work, if you’d like.”

“That’s nice of you.” I snag another, and pop it in my mouth, and chuckle at his look of horror. “So?” I ask after I’ve swallowed.

“So?”

“How are we going to act? What’s our backstory?”

“Perhaps we started dating because I was keeping you close so that you’d work with Sherlock.”

“And you started to care for me?” I ask, eating another sandwich. I’m making a right pig of myself, but damn, they’re good.

“No… perhaps tolerate would be a better word,” he says with a laugh. “Caring is distracting, and is not an advantage. My mother is aware of my philosophy on the subject.”

“Is she? Doesn’t sound like it, with her wanting you to date. Seems like she wants you to find someone, and be happy.”

“And how would the tedium of being in relationship cause happiness?” He shakes his head. “I am perfectly content as I am, Gregory.”

“And yet, to please your mum, you’re faking having a boyfriend.” I go for the salmon sandwich this time, and bite into it. “Mmm… this isn’t bad, either. Nice perk, having such delicious food at hand, yeah?”

“It serves its purpose,” he says with a wave of his hand. “People are impressed by so little.”

“I’m not impressed, just appreciative.”

“Small difference.”

It would be to him, the pompous arse. “So… do we wear matching sweaters, and hold hands while we walk our Scotties in Sussex?”

“Sussex? Oh, dear lord, Gregory…” He rolls his eyes, and pours more coffee for us both. “I’m not given to public displays of affection,” he says firmly. “Mummy wouldn’t believe it were I to even hold your hand.”

“Yeah, all right. No touching, no hand holding. What else don’t we do? I mean, how did we even start dating? Do we live at my flat – ”

“Heavens, no,” he interjects a bit too quickly for my tastes. He grimaces, and gives a slight shrug. “No offence, of course. It would not be believable for me to do such a thing. I’m sure your flat is lovely, and suitable for you, but Mummy knows I’m more… that is, I like the solitude of my own lodgings very much, and it – well, I’m sure you get the gist.”

“What I get is that you’re being an arse, Mycroft.” I stand and brush the crumbs from my trousers and shirt. “No need for it. I know I’m not what you usually go for, that my flat and my clothes are far from what you have, but I’m doing you a favour so that you can save face with your parents. Being insulting is not on.”

He stands and manages to look a tiny bit sorry. “Apologies, Gregory. This is rather far outside my milieu, and I’m afraid it’s made me uncomfortable.”

“And you act like a tosser when you’re uncomfortable?”

“A tosser?” He laughs that irritating, fake laugh I’ve come to hate. “Oh, Detective Inspector, you are a breath of fresh air for my stuffy day. I would love to continue to have you throw insults at me, and hammer at me with your ridiculous romantic notions, but unfortunately, I have more pressing matters to attend to, so I must take my leave. Feel free to stay and avail yourself of the remaining ‘sammies’. And as an apology, a nice hamper of… goodies… will be sent to the Yard. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He brushes past me, and I grab his sleeve. “Yeah, not so fast, mate. We’re not done here.”

With a look that would terrify any other man, he gingerly removes his sleeve from my grip. “Bespoke, Gregory. Not meant to be grabbed and wrinkled. And we’re done because I’ve had enough of this, and have work to do.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten that I’m only here because you need me. I’m not your servant, or one of your lackeys that you can just swan off from. Show some respect, even if you don’t mean it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, then lets out a breath. “I don’t ‘swan’.”

“You do. It must be a Holmes thing, because you and your brother are aces at it.”

“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t say ‘mince’ or ‘sashay’.

I give him a thorough up and down look, lingering a bit over his long, long legs that are encased in fine pin-striped wool, thinking of the last time I saw him walk. Head held high, striding with purpose, umbrella twirling. Sexy, that. “No mincing or sashaying from you.”

“Yes, well… I… you should know that I am by nature, solitary,” he says, staring at me with those intense blue eyes of his. “I am not fond of socialising, small talk, or interacting with people. I enjoy my work, fine wine, fine food, classical music, and my own company. I do not like football, ‘the rugby’, Christmas, Boxing Day, or any other made up celebratory days. I have been known to take in a film or two when I have the time, or to visit a restaurant that has been given high praise. That is all you need to know about me.”

I shake my head, and step away from him. “Fine. I’m sure you’re great at lying to your mum, so I’ll leave it all in your anti-social hands. Don’t blame me when it goes tits up, and you find yourself on a date with that old bird your mum keeps throwing at you.” I open the door, then turn back to him. “And for the record, I’m telling your mum that we hated each other at first sight, but you couldn’t resist my arse, and kidnapped me to go on a date with you.” I’m out in the corridor before he can reply.

****

“Oh, that’s just brilliant!” John says, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Serves him right. But… he just let you go? The Mycroft I know would have had you grabbed and detained.”

“He had a meeting. I’m sure if he didn’t, he’d have shipped me off to the Arctic, and took his chances with his mum.”

“You don’t hold your tongue with him, do you? Seems like you were already falling for him.”

Greg shrugs. “Thin line between love and hate, they say. He was so buttoned up and all about being alone and not needing anyone. I alternated between wanting to shake him, and snog him.”

“I know the feeling. Well, the shaking part, because I don’t see the attraction. But Sherlock’s just the same. I mean, I don’t want to snog him, but throttle him, yes. I can imagine Mycroft evoking the same response, just in a more sane way. Still don’t get the reason you married him, though. He’s a right prick.” At Greg’s frown, John laughs, and slides off the sofa. “I’m just saying to each his own. Where’s the loo?”

“Through that door.” Greg points to his left. “If you want, there’s a pudding. Trifle, I think. Or maybe custard tarts.”

“Damn, you are living quite large, mate. I’ll have whatever’s on offer.”

“I’ll dish it up, and grab another beer for you, then. I know Mycroft sounds like a berk, but he did send over a nice hamper with all sorts of tea sandwiches, scones, and carafes of coffee and tea. And he gave me flowers….”

 

I storm back to my desk, fuming at Mycroft, and how I reacted to him. Stupid, I chide myself. Shouldn’t have let him get to me. I toss my coat in the spare chair, and come to a full stop at the large bouquet of yellow flowers, standing in a glass vase in the middle of my desk. What the hell…?

“Came by special courier, along with a hamper full of sandwiches and pastries,” Sally says, leaning against the door frame. “Someone’s fond of you.”

“What?” I pluck the card off the plastic stick, and frown at her. “What are those?”

“Daffodils,” she laughs. “Means ‘I’m sorry that I fucked up, let’s try again’. Didn’t know you were seeing anyone…”

“I’m not,” I sigh. It won’t do to have Sally in my business, so I don’t dare mention Sherlock’s brother. “Just… I’m trying to do someone a favour, and it’s got off to a rough start.”

“Nice flowers, expensive vase. Crystal, at that.” She eyes the card. “You gonna open it?”

“You gonna leave so I can?”

“Spoilsport.”

I give her my best boss glare. “Bye.”

She leaves with a loud huff.

I lock my office door, open the envelope, and pull out the card.

 

Gregory, it reads, please accept this token of my apology. And if it’s any consolation, we will use your version of events as the catalyst for our relationship.

Enjoy the rest of your day,

Mycroft A.E. Holmes

I chuckle at his initials – I knew he had more names – and make a mental note to find out what they stand for. I tuck the card back in the envelope, and put it in my pocket. I take out my phone, and send a text:

Apology accepted. See you Friday. – GL

Bloody Holmeses. I move the flowers to the side of my desk, and get back to work.

 

TBC…

Chapter Text

 

“Here you go.” Greg hands John a bowl filled with berry trifle, and sits back in his chair. “Hope you like it.”

John frowns at the bowl. “Is this crystal?”

“Dunno,”Greg shrugs. “She put the trifle into four bowls, and stuck ‘em in the fridge. I didn’t think to ask if they were crystal.”

John lifts the bowl to look at the bottom. “It’s Waterford, Greg, like a hundred pound bowl, and you’ve got fruit and cake in it. Are you sure you didn’t marry Mycroft for his money?”

“Oh, bugger off with that shit,” Greg says, giving him a dark look. “I get enough of that from… everywhere. Don’t need it from you.”

“Yeah, sorry.” John tries to look contrite, but fails. “Crystal bowls, Greg.”

“It’s not like we had a wedding registry or anything, since getting married was a spur of the moment thing. But some mucky-muck got wind of it, and suddenly, we’re getting gifts. I changed my address with work, and now everyone is calling Mycroft my ‘fancy man’. I don’t have Mycroft’s money, but he didn’t find me begging for change in Leicester Square.”

“All right, all right.” John offers a sincere smile. “I was joking, Greg. But I can see where it would bug you, so I’m sorry. It’s just you and Mycroft are chalk and cheese.”

With a blush, Greg ducks his head, and takes a sip of his beer. “Yeah, well… he likes what he likes, you know? Wouldn’t be caught dead with a paper plate, or without the proper glass for his drink. It’s down to their parents, I think. A bit over the top, but their mum’s a proper lady, and their dad’s every inch a country squire at heart. They dress up for everything. Think about it… have you ever seen Sherlock in jeans?”

“Ah…” John takes a quick swallow of beer, and clears his throat. “Once. Yeah, once. I… he…”

“Oooh…” Greg laughs. “You’re blushing. Fancy our favourite sociopath in some well-fitting jeans, yeah?”

“No. NO!” John rubs at his neck. “I… ah… we’re just mates.”

“Then why’d you go all tongue-tied at the thought of your mate in jeans, John? Not that I blame you, because I’ve seen Sherlock in jeans, and it is a glorious sight. That’s one fine arse, that.”

John squirms, and crosses his legs. “Greg.”

“Nice, firm handful, if you like them small but pert. Now, Mycroft...he’s got the better arse of the two, a luscious handful that just –”

“No,” John groans. “Stop right there. We agreed there would be no in-depth descriptions of Mycroft’s… parts.”

“If I were describing a pair of tits, you’d be drooling on your shirt, you cock.” Greg shakes his head. “Grow up.”

“It’s not the parts, it’s the person,” John protests. “I am never going to be able to look Mycroft in the eye again, knowing that he’s got a luscious bum, and that you’ve wanked off to him and some dark sheets. It’s too much.”

“Oh, and I wasn’t bothered by the fact that you played candy-licker with Sarah, and then I had to question her about the circus shit? Talk about not being able to meet someone’s eyes…” Greg takes up his bowl, and eats a bit of trifle. “Oh, mmm… this is good. I wasn’t sure with the raspberries.”

“Not sure if Mycroft’s the only fancy man around here,” John says, eating a bit of his own trifle. He moans as he chews. “Oh, this is good. Damn, Greg. I need your cook.”

“I don’t cheat on Mycroft.”

“What?”

“Oh…” Greg laughs. “I thought you said you needed my cock.”

“You wish, you bastard.”

“I’ll have you know it’s a nice cock,” Greg muses. “Got more than my fair share in the size department, and – “

“GREG!” John howls, and sets his bowl down on the table. “Cut it out, you prick.”

“Oh, I’m just winding you up. Eat your trifle. You’re gonna love the next bit. Anthea came to see me.”

“Talk about luscious…” John’s tone is lecherous. “What did she have on? How was her hair?”

“Overcompensating, Romeo. Calm down. As I was saying, Anthea came to see me. Well, ‘see me’ isn’t at all what happened, because Mycroft did promise clothes. Of course, he can’t just do things like normal people…”

***

(Thursday, 9pm)

I watch as the two men and three women scurry past Mycroft’s assistant, and out my front door. “Care to explain all this, Miss… Anthea?”

“Oh, are you done with the shouting?” Anthea looks up from her mobile with a frown. “And it’s Andrea.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s Andrea.”

“Ah. Well, Andrea, I didn’t mean to shout, but you have to see it from my side. I come home from work, and all I want to do is eat my sweet and sour prawns, but my flat is filled with people. That Mycroft has access to my flat is scary enough, but to come home to fashion week after a hard day’s work is a bit much.”

“You didn’t get my text?”

“I got your text,” I say sourly. “It said ‘sending over clothes for your date’. Your text didn’t mention that people would be coming with the clothes. People with tape measures and packages of pants and vests and belts, and that there would be a shoe chap.”

“They were only trying to help me. I can’t be everywhere.”

“Sorry about that,” I grumble. “But it’s invasive. And stop calling me by my title. If you’ve had a hand in picking out those fancy pants they’ve left for me, it’s only fair that you call me Greg.”

“Greg,” she says with a smile. “I understand there’s an issue with the suit…?”

“Well, yes,” I huff, “there is a problem. I seem to recall Mycroft saying ‘an assortment of clothing from which I could choose’, but there is only one suit. To choose means that there should be multiple items to look at. Choices does not mean people invading my flat, asking me about my pants preference, which for the record is short boxer briefs, and providing an endless supply of shirts and ties, expensive shoes, and a dressing gown, that is so bloody soft, it should be illegal, but beside the point. But there is only one suit. It is navy. I have a navy suit.”

“Yes, Greg, but you do not have this suit,” she says, holding up the jacket and trousers – navy with a thin stripe of grey shot through. “Choose a shirt.”

“‘From which you can choose’ means I should get to choose the suit as well,” I argue, knowing that it’s in vain. Mycroft has decided I’m to wear that suit, and so I shall. “Right?”

She shrugs, unconcerned, and looks at the shirts. “I’d suggest the one with the navy stripes. Matches up perfectly with the navy and lilac dotted tie.”

“I’m not sure if … this is a bit much, isn’t it?” I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but the suit is expensive, the shoes probably cost more than my flat, and I’m not even going to mention the pants… “I’m not complaining, because it’s a damned fine suit, just…”

“I think you’ll look well fit in it.” She smiles, and presses the clothes against my chest. “Mr. Holmes thinks the colour is good for you. Something about your hair. I concur.”

Nothing like the flattery of a gorgeous woman to help along a cause, and I’m sure Mycroft did this on purpose. I’m spending a lot of this favour thing making concessions, while he gets to make all the rules, the git. “Fine. But what if it doesn’t fit? I don’t –”

“Mr. Holmes is certain he’s got the correct measurements.” She looks at the suit, then at me. “If the measurements are incorrect – which I highly doubt – someone from Mr. Zegna’s shop will come and make alterations.”

I frown at that, and try to get a look at the label on the jacket. “Mister… wait, is this what’s-his-name Zegna?” I don’t know much about fashion, but I read enough men’s mags to know that name. “Shit… er, shoot, Andrea. That’s… I can’t accept these things!”

“Listen, Greg,” she says, laying the jacket and trousers across the back of the sofa, “I understand your hesitation, but please see reason. This isn’t a date with one of your birds who don’t mind you showing up in some hideous pair of trousers you picked up from the bargain page on Crazy Clearance. You’re going on a date with Mycroft Holmes. You’ll be dining at The Ritz, and meeting his parents. It’s a pretend date, but dressing the part goes along with all of that.”

“A man’s got his pride,” I say, brushing at my trousers self-consciously. “And I never bought anything on Crazy Clearance… I was just looking.”

“Of course not,” she soothes, and I can see why she’s entrusted with Mycroft’s business. “I didn’t mean to imply that you did. Your clothes are fine for chasing suspects and such, and as soon as the date is done, you can go back to wearing them.” She shudders (very discreetly), and takes a seat on the sofa. “Please?” She picks up the butter soft ankle boot I tried on earlier. “If only to wear this luscious shoe for an evening…?”

Oh, god… those shoes… supple and soft, and not too fancy. And they fit like they were made for my feet. “I’m sure that anything I say about your skills in manipulation will sound sexist, so I’ll just agree with you.”

“Thank you. Now to the menu.” She opens her briefcase, and pulls out a single sheet of paper.

“The menu?” I flop down next to her, and groan. “Aren’t we actually going to the restaurant?”

“Yes,” she says. “But Mr. Holmes doesn’t like surprises, or, well… indecisiveness. He knows that his parents, bless their hearts, will have a hard time deciding. So, if you choose in advance, you and Mr. Holmes can order quickly, and his parents might follow suit. I have my doubts, but it’s not my place to say.”

“What an utter priss,” I say before I can stop myself. “No offence, Andrea. That’s just crazy. This whole thing is crazy.”

She tries to hide her chuckle behind a cough. “Be that as it may…” She holds out the menu. “Choose one item from each line, please.”

I take the paper and look at the menu. I frown at her. “I am an adult man. I have been to fancy restaurants. I know how to order from a menu like a sensible person.”

“Preaching to the choir,” she says with a commiserating smile. “I would like to get home at a reasonable hour, thank you.”

“And you’re good at guilt tripping, too.” I sigh, then look back at the menu:

 

Oysters Rockefeller * Lobster Medallions with Salmon Caviar * Chilled Prawns with lemon

Lobster Bisque with Armagnac * Heart of Romaine with Roquefort Vinaigrette

Magret a al D’Artagnan * Steak au Poivre * Rack of Lamb * Sea Bass with Beurre Blanc

Ritz Potatoes * Wild rice pilaf * Pommes frites

*Spinach with bacon * Roasted Asparagus * Peas with pearl onions

Crème Brulee * Death by chocolate * Lavender Tuiles * Cheese plate

 

“Seriously… lavender tuiles? Who does that?”

“The Ritz, evidently.”

With an eye roll, I peruse the choices again. “Chilled prawns sound good, but the lobster… do you know what Mycroft is having? Oh, never mind… I’m his pretend boyfriend; I’ll just steal a bite from his plate. Right… chilled prawns, lobster bisque, the duck, whipped potatoes, asparagus… wait…” I think about the effects of asparagus on urine, and reconsider. “Make that spinach and bacon, and definitely the death by chocolate. I prefer mineral water, and I take my gin on the rocks with a splash and a twist.”

“He had you for the steak, and the peas.”

“Can have that any day,” I grin. “Don’t get duck too often. What’s he having?”

“Lamb, most likely, with the salad, and crème brulee.” She taps away on her tablet. “And his mum will be on him for not ordering more, so be on guard.”

“Right.” My mum is the queen of feeding you up, so I know the feeling. “Anything else? Should I offer to pay?”

She gives me a horrified look. “God, no. Please – he’d be insulted.”

“So, not even the fake reaching for the wallet that birds do to make you think they want to split the bill?”

“Perhaps the ‘birds’ you’ve dated do so,” she says with a slight sneer. “But it seems that if you invite me to a meal as your date, there is an expectation that you would pay unless otherwise stipulated. And without an expectation of sex later.”

“You’re jaded.”

“Yes. Rest assured, Mr. Holmes does not expect you to front your half of the meal, or to offer yourself for sex, so please refrain from offering.”

“I might just offer sex to see what he does.” I laugh at her dark look. “Oh, relax… I’m kidding.”

She sighs. “Speaking of which, do you know any amusing anecdotes?”

“Lots, though they aren’t suitable for mixed company. How did you get out of being his date for the evening?”

She pauses for a few seconds, and then shrugs. “I have a date. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Mycroft didn’t even realise that, you know. You must have some supernatural powers to have successfully begged off.”

“Kyle is going to ask me to move in with him,” she sighs. “I am going to turn him down, of course, but Mr. Holmes could hardly begrudge me the experience.”

“You don’t love this Kyle guy?”

“No, and he doesn’t love me, so it’s fine,” she replies with a laugh. “He’s MI-5, and wants to work with Mycroft Holmes. What better way than through me?”

“That’s such a rotten thing to do. You’re not bothered by it?”

“I work for Mycroft Holmes, Greg. False declarations of love are a bit commonplace in the scheme of things that have happened under his employ.” She studies me with a frown. “Do you speak any other languages? French? German? Tagalong?”

“Je parlais francais.” I hope I don’t sound too bad. “And I do a mean American accent, if needed.”

“Ah. Well, I’m not sure Mr. Holmes knows that, so I’ll note it here.”

“Just grand.”

“Right. Any allergies? Special requests? Can you dance? Are you left handed?”

“Right handed. Why?”

“For your seating. Mr. Holmes’ father is left-handed.”

“Of course. Yeah, no allergies, or special requests. I can dance, unless it’s jerking or whatever the kids are doing these days. Is it any wonder he can’t get dates with all this? Christ… I had an easier time becoming a police constable.”

“He…” She huffs out a breath. “This is uncharted territory.”

“Wait, what? He’s never been on a date?” I don’t even try to hide my amazement at that. “But he’s…” I wave a hand in the air. “Mycroftian, if that’s a word.”

“Whatever that entails, yes, he is. It isn’t that he hasn’t been on a date, just not in this sense. With someone he… well, he’s doesn’t get on with most people, so I’m usually his plus one. You should be honoured.”

“I’m not sure honoured is the word for it. Besides, I’m only going because you have a Valentine’s Day date.”

“He could have taken a dozen other people, Greg. He asked you because you’ve already been vetted.”

“Oh, please. He asked me because he was desperate, and he’s such an arse that he can’t find anyone besides you that would get near him with a ten metre pole. You have to admit that if some bloke did all this before you went on a date with him, you’d have him up on charges. Or in Greenland.”

“I suppose I would at that. But it’s his way, and if you let on that you know he doesn’t date, you will never get a clear picture on your telly again.” She stands, briefcase in hand. “He’s not invincible, infallible, or above anything. He just acts as though he is. And he loves his parents to a fault, though he’d never admit it. You would do well to remember that, Greg.”

“Duly noted.” I relax for the first time since she texted me to set up this meeting. “Anything else?”

“Put the suit in the garment bag, shoes back in the chamois, and don’t attempt to iron the shirt. Someone will be along tomorrow afternoon to take care of that for you.”

“I can -” I stop at her look, and swallow down my comment on more people invading my flat. “Don’t iron the shirt.”

“Perfect. You are free to keep the other shirts and ties as a gift for putting up with Mr. Holmes’ whims.”

“Whims is putting it mildly. And yeah, it’s too much.” I look at the shirts piled on the chair, each matched up with a tie and pocket square. “They’ll think I’m on the take.”

“You?” She laughs, then sobers at my sour look. “Well, we can send back the ties and squares. Keep the shirts. You’ll thank me later.”

“Can’t imagine why I would.” I scrub my hands across my face, and breathe out heavily. “Any insights you want to give me? Things I should know about him? Like, is he ticklish? Does he fancy any particular flavour of ice cream? Is he insane?”

“Only lies have details, Greg. I’ll see on you Friday.” She opens the door, then looks back at me. “And in case you’re wondering, I’m MI-6, fully trained. If anything goes amiss, I know twelve ways to hurt you with a cotton swab. And he likes rocky road gelato. State secret.”

“Just like his middle name,” I groan.

She laughs. “It’s only a secret because it’s hideous, and he’s embarrassed by it. Try to get a good night’s sleep, Greg. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Yeah, thanks. Good luck with your bloke.”

I lock the door behind her, and bang my head on the wood.

***

“Oh, so you get her first name,” John says. “And Mycroft’s kryptonite middle name. What is it?”

“I can’t tell you, or he’d kill you.” Greg spoons up another bit of my trifle and looks at him. “What?”

“He gave you clothes. No, not just clothes. Zegna, Greg, which is some expensive stuff. You really had no idea he fancied you?”

“It wasn’t like that at first,” Greg protests. “I mean, I thought maybe he might, well, hoped, more like, but I chalked it up as wishful thinking, because he was such a prick. As I’m telling you now, I’m cursing myself for not seeing it. I had the upper hand the whole time.”

“Well, he’s a Holmes. They’re annoying, condescending, rude, overbearing, and have no social skills. They’re all about being right, and being in control.” John sets his bowl down. “Mycroft’s a million times worse than Sherlock will ever be. Nosy bugger, secretive as hell, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t want to punch him in the face. Him not dating is not unexpected.”

“Yeah, well… he can rub you the wrong way, for sure. I honestly don’t think he knows any other way to be. All the games and spy stuff… it’s just how he’s wired. Once you get passed all that, he’s an all right chap. Sexy as hell, and would give me the world if I wanted it.”

“Mycroft?”

“John…” Greg sighs. “Yes, Mycroft. This is him, fancying me, all right? In his own way. Creepy way.”

“And you just let it happen? Didn’t think to back out?”

“I was…” Greg blushes and sets his bowl aside. “I was hoping I could… I wanted to shag him. Hard. All night. Or something like that. I wanted to tell him to bugger off, but I was… he was… shit.”

“Damn, mate,” John says with a chuckle. “You had it bad, didn’t you?”

“Yes, all right? And it just got worse.”

“Poor bugger. So, what happened next? Having someone to come over and ‘iron’ for you is some perk.”

“Oh, ironing was the least of what happened on the day of the date. Oh my god…”

TBC

Chapter Text

“I’m not boring you, am I?” Greg looks over at John, who is staring at the sofa cushion intently.

“Hm?” John blinks and looks up. “No, no… just thinking. It must be something, having a man like Mycroft on your side. In love with you. Having all this.”

“There are perks on both sides,” Greg shrugs. “And it wasn’t easy. I’m telling it with a humorous slant, but you have to know that Mycroft’s default mode is prick. That hasn’t changed much.”

“But, as you say, you married him.”

“I did. Because even in the midst of being a prick, he managed to do something that changed my mind about him…”

 

***

 

(Friday, 6:15 am. D-Day)

“Hullo?” I fumble my mobile up to my ear, and try to wake up fully. Who the hell would be ringing me this early? “Whozit?”

“It’s Carlyle, Lestrade.”

Shit. I am wide awake now because Superintendent Carlyle, my boss, ringing me at home is never a good thing. “Sir? Is there somewhere you need me to be?” I’m not scheduled today, but someone may have called off. God, I hope not.

“Sorry to ring you so early on your day off,” he says gruffly. “I was calling to let you know that your time off request was approved. You’re off the roster until Tuesday.”

“My… ah, what?”

“Your request was logged in the system last night. Late notice, but I won’t begrudge you an extended weekend, especially since you worked so diligently on the Harper case. Enjoy the weekend.” He rings off.

Tossing the phone back on the nightstand, I flop back on the bed, and contemplate how strange my life has been since I agreed to go on this ridiculous date with Mycroft Holmes. Surreal might be a good word for it. My Gran would say insane, and I think that might be just right.

I look at the clock, and decide I should sleep for another hour or two before I’m ready to face the day.

As I drift off, I smile a bit at the thought of Andrea (or Mycroft) breaking into Carlyle’s calendar to put my request in it.

***

(Friday, 9:01 am, D-Day)

I’m just pulling on some track pants and a t-shirt when my phone rings for the second time this morning. I scoop it off the nightstand and frown at the display. ‘Unknown number’. What the hell? I think as I swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Gregory, good morning. I hope you’re in good spirits today.”

“Mycroft?” Oh, this can’t be good.

“Given that you have informed me that no one has called you Gregory since the posh toffs in fifth form, it seems evident that it is indeed me.”

“Are you calling to cancel?” Seems he’d use Andrea for that, but one never knows with him. “Has something come up?”

“Unfortunately, my prayers in that respect were not answered, so we are still on.”

“Hang on a minute. You were hoping that something work-related would come up, and you’d be spared the company of me and your parents?”

“When you say it aloud, it sounds so vulgar.” He lets out a small sigh. “I am merely on high alert, should I be needed.”

“You’re stuck with us. So, why are you calling?”

“It seems that I may have handled our encounter earlier this week in a… shall we say, regrettable fashion.”

“Very nice apology with the daffodils, though. And a tease as to what your middle names are. Very you.” I have a feeling that this is going to be one of those conversations, so I take a seat on the sofa, and get comfortable. “I wouldn’t call our coffee date regrettable. Rude, and overbearing, maybe. I don’t think you can help yourself.”

“Well.” He clears his throat. “It occurred to me that our date is this evening, and we are not at ease with each other.”

“We could have been, but you choose to be a prick.”

“As I said,” he snaps, then clears his throat again. “Pardon me, Gregory. I am unsure why I have such an ill-mannered reaction to you. I am usually not so…”

“High-handed? Idiotic?” I supply helpfully.

“Impolite,” he says coolly. “I do not take kindly to being called an idiot.”

I laugh at that. “I’m sure. But I said idiotic. There’s a difference.”

“A difference which makes no difference is no difference.”

“See that thing you just did there? That’s high-handed. It makes you sound like a prick.”

“That’s twice now that you’ve used that word to refer to me. You do it deliberately, don’t you? You want to take me down a peg or some such nonsense, because I do remind you of those snooty toffs from school.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Typical Holmes, so contrary.”

“I am not contrary,” he huffs. “And I did not call you to argue.”

“Could have fooled me,” I counter. “I think you secretly enjoy talking to someone you can’t cow.”

“Oh, I could cow you, should I chose to do so,” he says.

His voice has gone low, dark, and dangerous, and I am more than a bit turned on. I feel a stirring in my groin, and shift on the sofa to –

***

“Greg.” John’s tone is just short of exasperation.

“It’s part of the story!” Greg’s tone is just short of sheepish. “You shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want the whole story.”

“Is there any part of this bit where you touch yourself in a sexual manner?”

“No! No. No…” Greg frowns. “Well… I don’t think so…”

“No, or you don’t think so?”

“Okay… well, maybe, but don’t worry… it’s only a small bit of this part.”

“Fuck my life,” John groans. “Go on, then.”

“Right.” Greg grins and swallows more beer. “As I was saying…”

***

“That’s right sexy, you going all threatening on me,” I say, rubbing a hand across my stomach. “A tad bit arousing, if I’m honest.”

“I’m sorry?”

He sounds confused (which I love), and I’ll wager twenty quid he’s doing that blinking thing right now.

“Your voice. It’s like… honey and smoke, and puts me in the mind of naughty things I shouldn’t want. I could listen to you talk all day.”

“I…”

“No one’s ever told you that?”

“That my voice sounds like… naughty, smoky, sweet things? No. People tend not to say such things to me.”

“They should. Well, maybe not. Then we wouldn’t have this whole date thing, because you’d be taken up by some investment banker or one of those ultra-intelligent chaps from Vauxhall.”

“Oh, they don’t hold a candle to your charm and wit, Gregory.”

I cough at that, and pull the phone away to look at it. I shake my head, and put it back to my ear. “Is that you, flirting?”

“Heavens, no,” he laughs. “I am not given to such frivolous doings. I was merely complimenting you. To put you at ease. As I was saying earlier, I am unsure that my mother will believe we’ve been dating six months. You’re too prickly, and I am not comfortable with you. As it stands, she may well try to find an eligible woman while we're dining.”

“Picture me in my pants,” I say.

He’s quiet for such a long moment, I think he’s rung off.

“You still there?”

“I am,” he says crisply. “I was checking the mobile signal in your area.”

“For what?”

“I thought I heard you ask me to picture you in your pants.”

“I did.” I pause, then laugh. “Oh… no, no… like a public speaking device to put yourself at ease. But… if you’re thinking other thoughts, we’re not as ill at ease as you think.”

“I wasn’t,” he defends a bit too quickly, if you ask me. “Why would I think of you in your pants in any context?”

“I’m damned sexy in my pants, I’ll have you know. Nice thighs, I’ve been told. And my briefs accentuate my nice arse, and package.”

He gives that fake laugh again. “Your confidence is heart-warming. Mummy will adore you.”

“I’m limber, and have no inhibitions,” I continue, determined to break him. “Hardly any gag reflex. Swallow you whole without a thought.”

“This conversation has most certainly taken a turn.”

“For the better?” I ask, hopeful.

“To the absurd,” he corrects. “I do not understand why you felt the need to provide that information, but you must keep in mind that this is a pretend date, Gregory. There’s not going to be an opportunity for you to put your lack of a gag reflex to use… unless you plan on prostituting yourself at the Ritz? I should warn you that I will not lift a finger, should you be arrested.”

“Your loss.”

“One I shall feel keenly.” I hear the rustle of papers. “As amusing as this has been, once again, it has not resolved the issue. This date shall fail spectacularly.”

“Not for lack of trying,” I sigh. “Well, I should let you get back to work, yeah?”

“Yes. And as a way of showing my appreciation for putting up with my… eccentricities -”

“Hang on,” I cut in. “Eccentricities? Mycroft, you’re mental, not eccentric.”

“I beg your pardon?” He sounds insulted.

“I don’t mean in a bad way,” I correct hastily, since I’m not looking to spend Valentine’s Day in an abandoned missile silo in Kazakhstan. “Just, well… part of the dining experience is to see a menu in the proper setting, order your food, then wait for it come. While you wait, you have conversation. Making your dinner companions choose their meal days in advance is… a bit… ”

“Mental,” he supplies, sounding more than a bit put off. “So you’ve said. Gregory, you have not met my parents. My mother once took twenty minutes to choose from a menu consisting of two entrees – and both were beef. She couldn’t decide between roast and steak. And dear lord, my father tries to be forward thinking, and will order something he’s never heard of, and will spend the meal bemoaning the fact that he’s allergic to shellfish, and has ordered lobster medallions because they sounded whimsical.”

“If you’re going to ship me off, at least make it somewhere warm,” I joke (but only a bit). “All I’m saying is that yesterday, I wanted duck. Tonight, I might fancy a steak. But now, I can’t change my mind because you don’t like dithering. That’s not how normal people behave.”

“You’ve met me, and you’ve met my brother. Do we appear to be normal to you?”

“Not in that sense, no.” I clear my throat. I’m just digging myself deeper. “All this you’re doing? Mental. Who goes to a restaurant pre-ordering the food? Who doesn’t know how to go on a date?”

“Oh, you’re normal?” He laughs that irritating, smug laugh of his. “You’ve been married twice, and each time, you got cheated on. Why is that, Greg?”

“Oh, and that's not rude. Well, since you asked, it was because they didn’t want what I wanted.” I try not to sound too sad or wistful; it’s all water under the bridge, but it rankles.

“And what was that?”

“Just to be,” I say. “To have someone who understands the demands of my job, and doesn’t get all up in arms because I can’t make some silly party due to a triple homicide. Someone who understands that I need to just collapse on the sofa and stare at nothing for a few hours after dealing with a case that involves a kid, or the homeless. The job can get to me just as much as the next bloke, and I want to be with someone who gets that. Also, neither of my wives appreciated the little things I’d do… like remembering that wife number one liked extra onion in her fried rice, or that wife number two was rubbish at cleaning house. I want someone who likes being with me, and whatever that entails. And who believes in long, slow kisses that last half the night.” I frown at what I’ve just said, and realise he probably did it on purpose. Oh, well… what’s done is done. “Whatever.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says gently. “You are human, after all. Neither of your wives met your standards? Not even at first?”

“I’m sure they tried.” I sigh. “But, it’s hard, you know?”

“You’ll find someone that meets your standards, Gregory.”

I think I already have, I want to say, but I don’t. Instead, I chuckle. “Maybe. Certainly not the kissing part.”

“It is highly overrated, if one may say.”

“Only to those who haven’t been kissed right.”

“Right is relative.”

“You kiss me, you’re going to want more.”

“Arrogant.”

“Honest. I’m a good kisser. My gran always said kissing leads to other things, and it’s true. It’s how I convinced my first wife to have sex with me on the first date. I kiss like nobody’s business.”

“There will be no kissing tonight, Gregory.”

The thought of kissing him, pressing him against a wall, and giving him a full-on snog is not a road I should be going down. I shake my head to to clear it. "Damn, and here I was thinking it would break the ice if I were to show up early, and snog you a bit to loosen you up.”

“I do not need kissing, or loosening.”

“Oh, you do. Those eyes of yours, locked with mine, my hands under all that fine fabric you wear. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I started kissing you.”

He clears his throat. “Well, look at the time. I am seeing the barber in a bit, and must clear my desk before then.”

“Did that make you nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar. Relax, Mycroft. We’ll be fine.”

“One can only hope. And as I was saying before you interrupted with your talk of kissing, I’ve taken the liberty of sending over a few items in appreciation for ah, putting up with me.”

“What sort of items?” I ask warily. I mean, to someone this mental, items could mean anything from a tie pin to high-powered rifle with my name engraved on it. “Not that I’m not grateful, mind you. Just… I don’t like surprises that could, ah, hurt me.”

“Oh, Gregory,” he laughs, “you are quite amusing. Very refreshing. If I were going to harm you, I would have done so already, or will do so once the charade of our date is over.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Sort of.”

“Yes, well, one should take one’s comforts where one can. Nothing I am sending this morning will harm you in any way, unless you are calorie phobic. Enjoy your morning, Detective Inspector. I will see you this evening. And you’re welcome for the long weekend I finagled for you.”

“Wasn’t sure it was you,” I say defensively. “You lot are so cryptic, I never know who’s doing what. But, yes, thank you. I’m sure I’ll need the rest after tonight.”

“My pleasure,” he says in that croony, sexy way I’m sure he’s not aware he has. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

Before I can ask what he means, he’s rung off, and my doorbell is ringing. “Oh, hell… what now?” I open the door, and stare at the two young men standing there. “Yes?”

“Greg Lestrade? I’m Rudy, and this is Paul. We’re from Morning Cuppa. Ms. Smith sent us.”

“Ms. Smith?” I frown. Ah, Andrea. “Sent you with what?”

“Breakfast,” Rudy says with a bright smile. “Can we come in?”

“Oh, why not?” I move aside, and let them in. Bloody Holmeses.

‘Breakfast’ turns out to be somewhat of a feast. Well, at least for me, since I don’t usually get to have a proper breakfast most days. The lads set me up with a carafe of the best coffee I’ve ever had, a tray with Chelsea Buns – my favourite – and some lovely strawberries, yoghurt, orange slices and clusters of grapes.

I should be creeped out by all this, but at this point, that agreeing to a date with Mycroft Holmes results in having my favourite breakfast sent over, I’m partially grateful he’s mental.

I figure that a ‘thank you’ will go a long way toward us getting on tonight, so I decide to send a text.

How did you know I’d do anything for a Chelsea Bun? GL

Your right thumb – M. Holmes

I frown, and look at my thumb. How’s that? GL

Ask Sherlock the next time you see him. Meeting. Talk later. M. Holmes.

Ta for breakfast. See you tonight. Greg

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I sit down on the sofa, and tuck in to the meal. The buns are still warm, and are soft and decadent, just like my Gran used to make. The coffee is amazing, and the fruit and yoghurt hits the spot. I feel like a pig, eating all this food, but it’s too delicious to pass up.

As I’m eating, I look at my thumb again, and wonder what Mycroft saw that helped him deduce that I’d like Chelsea buns and my coffee laced with espresso.

 

***

 

“And that’s when I fell for him,” Greg says with a laugh. “It just hit me, right out of the blue, that I wanted him. And wanted him to want me.”

“Done in by Chelsea Buns, eh?” John grins at him. “It was quite thoughtful. Manipulative, but thoughtful. And you’re right; I don’t think they can help themselves because they are mental.”

“I’m not sure who’s worse, though.”

“Mycroft,” John says immediately. “Sherlock is noisy and cocky and rapid –fire deductions, like being back in the war zone. But you come to expect that. Mycroft is stealth and manipulations and watching, all in your psyche, but so quiet about it, you don’t realise he’s deduced you. Then, bam! Chelsea buns and yoghurt. But still, I don’t see how you managed to get the most anti-social man in the world to marry you.”

“I’m getting to it.” Greg stands and gathers up their bowls. “Tea? You’re probably stuffed, but his mum gets this chocolate chai-spiced stuff that is so good, you’ll be craving it.”

“Chocolate chai-spiced tea?” John shakes his head and stands. “Pretty soon, you’ll be too good for your local.”

“Bugger that,” Greg says firmly. “It’s good tea. Come on, keep me company while I do the washing up.”

“Is this story going to end any time soon?”

“Oh, like you aren’t hanging on my every word, taking notes for your blog.” Greg’s eyes twinkle with delight. “And Mycroft will come along and redact all the juicy bits.”

“I hate when he does that,” John grumbles. “Where’s the loo?”

“Down the hall to the right. I’ll be in the kitchen. You’re gonna love the next bit.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Well… Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, for one. And then there was the dancing…”

“Dancing?” John’s brows lift sky high. “Mycroft dances?”

“Oh, yeah… and that’s when it all went downhill…”

 

TBC…

 

Chapter Text

Greg looks up from the dishwater as John walks into the kitchen. “Thought you fell in.”

“Nearly,” John says. “That’s some loo. And this is some kitchen.” He turns, and takes in the gleaming stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops. “Very…”

“If you say posh, I’m putting you out.” Greg rinses the bowls, and sets them in the dish rack.

“Well-appointed, then,” John laughs. “I’m surprised you don’t have a live-in maid to do the cleaning up.”

“Well…”

“Oh, god… you have a maid, too?”

“Housekeeper, John,” Greg corrects. “And she doesn’t live in. She comes a few days a week to tidy up. I mean, can you see Mycroft doing the hoovering? He did try, but it took ages, because he’s a perfectionist.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him. So, you’ve got this fancy as fuck kitchen, a bathroom as big as our sitting room, housekeepers, cooks, crystal dishes, and your own man cave. What the hell could you possibly have to offer a man like Mycroft?”

“I see Sherlock is rubbing off on you,” Greg sniffs, “and not in a good way.”

John steps over to the sink and puts a hand on Greg’s shoulder, turning him to face him. “Yeah, sorry, mate. I didn’t mean that how it sounded. Just… you and Mycroft? It’s fucking bizarre.”

Greg shrugs and turns back to the sink. “Opposites attract, John. And we’re not all that different, under it all. We both love mysteries, our jobs are important, and we love our families. Who has more money or more stuff is all bullshit at the end of the day. I’d live in a hovel with him because he gets me.”

“Yeah, sorry again.”

“I think you’re just jealous,” Greg says, drying his hands. “You’d die to open a refrigerator that didn’t have eyes and heads in it.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be jealous? What did you do to deserve the sane Holmes?”

“I seduced him.”

“Mycroft?” John laughs. “That couldn’t have been easy…”

“No,” I admit. “But in the end, my wit and charm won out. And to think I almost chickened out on the whole date.”

 

***

(6pm, Date Day)

By the time Andrea shows up at six, I’m a wreck. I’ve been pacing for the past half hour. I’ve also smoked a cigarette, and am wearing two nicotine patches. The window is wide open, it’s drizzling, and maybe water is coming inside. I didn’t look.

“Greg,” she says, frowning as she takes in the patches on my arm, the open window, and probably the smell of smoke. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

I look at the scattered mess of shirts and ties on the chair, sofa, and table. “I…” I realise I’m only wearing the suit trousers and a vest, and I blush. “I’m not going.”

She rolls her eyes, sets down the bag she’s carrying, and pushes the door shut with her foot. “Greg, we don’t have time for you to have a meltdown. I need you to finish getting dressed. Dinner is at half-seven, and if you’re late, Mr. Holmes will go off the rails.”

“I’m not going.” I emphasise this by folding my arms across my chest in a perfect imitation of my four-year old nephew. “It was a bad idea from scratch.’

“Right.” She sighs, moves a bundle of shirts from the sofa, and sits down. “We have a few minutes wiggle room. Sit down, and tell me what’s happened.”

“Fine.” I unfold my arms, and perch on the arm of the sofa. “So, he sent over breakfast.”

“Yes,” she nods. “Chelsea buns. Were they as good as your Gran’s?”

“God, yes.” I smile at the memory of the soft, sweet buns. “I… he… he said he could tell by my right thumb.”

“Sounds like something he’d say. And the fruit and yoghurt?”

“Yes. Sweetest strawberries I’ve ever had. The coffee was perfect and I’ve never felt so spoiled… well, not until this afternoon.”

“Ah.” She smiles and looks me over. “Shave and haircut. It suits you.”

“Yeah, well… what bloke would complain about having a straight razor shave? All that moisturising, hydrating, and hot towels? Just perfect. And the ladies who showed up to trim and buff my nails were very sweet. Cucumbers on the eyes, a nice haircut, and a bit of a massage. Left me with a basket of products and such. Even the bloke who steamed the shirt and spritzed it with… some la-di-dah linen stuff was nice.”

“And so what’s the problem?”

“It’s… what does it mean? I need to know what to do!” I blow out a sigh of pure exasperation. “What’s he… what does he want? All this makes me feel like some rent boy… well, not exactly a rent boy, because that’s bit farfetched, but… all right, like some bit of rough that needs polishing or some such shit. I mean, great, I’m doing him a favour, and I have to look the part, but this is insane! I put on these trousers, and look…” I stand up and turn in a slow circle. “Look at them! They fit perfectly, right down to the turn up. What the fuck? Who has that kind of accuracy with the naked eye? I’ll tell you who… Mycroft A.E. Holmes, the posh git with two middle names that no one knows.”

Her lips purse, and I can’t tell if she’s about to laugh or if she’s holding back an explosion. “Greg, you need to calm down. Do you have any beer or liquor?”

“No, and thank god, because I’d be right pissed now.” And I seriously considered popping out to the offie to grab a nice bottle, but thought it would be bad manners to show up to meet a bloke’s parents smelling like scotch. “You haven’t got a nice bottle of scotch in that magic bag of yours, do you?”

“Oh, yeah, lots and lots of liquor. Right at the bottom.” She sighs. “Greg… I know you’re seeing Mr. Holmes in a different light and all, and you wouldn't be the first person to… well, that’s not exactly true, but it’s… well… it’s not like you’ve never been exposed to the Holmes way, right?”

“You don’t understand. He called me, and we talked. And it was nice, you know? Like he was a normal human being, listening to me bang on about what I want in a relationship. Being… nice. And then Chelsea buns, just like my Gran used to make. And what am I supposed to do with that? How am I not supposed to feel anything? Yeah, sure I’m a bloke, and we’re not supposed to be all soppy and gagging for attention, but damn it, I’m only human. You can’t just… it’s pretend, but now it’s not, and what’s going to happen when he finds out that I fancy him? Goodbye, Scotland Yard, hello, first manned probe to Jupiter!”

This time she does laugh. “You overestimate the scope of his duties.”

I glare at her. “I’m being serious.”

“I know you are, and that’s what funny about all this. You fancy him. Good for you. It’s not a disease.” She stands and moves over to the armchair. “Get dressed,” she orders, handing me the shirt and tie we agreed on the other day.

“But – “

“No arguing, Greg.” Her tone is firm and sharp. “We don’t have time for this. You’re absolutely gorgeous. Your face looks soft and smooth – not that it’s my place to say, but your stubble usually looks very prickly and rough about this time of day – your hair is shiny, and if I can indulge in a bit of… well, don’t take this the wrong way, but, ah… if you don’t mind me saying, those trousers and your arse were made for each other.”

“My what is what now?”

“You heard me.” She blushes and ducks her head. “Jesus, Greg… you’re fifty years old, and you look like you just stepped off the cover of Hot Bloke magazine. And Mycroft Holmes not only picked out the clothes that show off said arse, he sent over people to make your bloody face and hands soft, to make your beautiful hair manageable, and gave you your childhood comfort food to calm your nerves, you git. I know you thought ‘Oh, Andrea did all this’ or that he’s doing this to impress his parents, but think about it. He doesn’t have to impress his parents. Yeah, it’s a bit much, Greg… it’s a bit much because he doesn’t know how to do this. And yes, there’s a this. Now go put the bloody clothes on before I do it for you.” She shoves me toward my bedroom.

I take a few steps, then look back at her. “There’s a this?”

With a loud sigh, she looks up at the ceiling, then back at me. “I told you the other day that he could have taken anyone, but chose you, Greg. There’s definitely a this. Get. Dressed.”

“Right.” I go to the bedroom as she mutters something about silly men who don’t know how to express emotion.

***

“You’re an idiot,” John says. “Even I could tell he fancied you as soon as you started telling the story.”

“I didn’t trust my judgment.”

“And I don’t trust your story telling.” John smirks at him, and shakes his head. “I’m sure you're embellishing parts of this. ‘Hot Bloke magazine, my arse.”

“Well, it’s better than ‘Hideous Jumpers Weekly”, Greg counters. “And I’m not ‘embellishing’ anything. All events are true - none of the names have been changed to protect anyone. Andrea thinks I have a great arse. And it’s part of the reason Mycroft married me.”

“Do you really think I need to know that?”

“Part of the story, mate.” Greg thrusts a hip sideways, causing his arse to stick out. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re just as mental as Mycroft, which is why he married you.” John sips his tea and smiles. “Damn, this is good tea. Is there anything in this house that’s awful?”

“He drinks this green sludge in the morning that tastes like the Thames,” Greg laughs. “No morning snogs after that thing. It’s horrid.”

“TMI. So what happened next, Hot Bloke?”

“Cut that out,” Greg blushes. “What happened next is that I calmed down, and got dressed...”

 

***

I come out to the living room in shirt, trousers, socks, and shoes. The tie is hanging loosely around my neck, and the shirt cuffs are undone. “Help me with the tie? Not sure if I should go full Windsor, or just my usual.”

“I think a half-Windsor will suit.” She steps over and knots the tie swiftly and efficiently.

“That was quick,” I say. “Lots of practice?”

“On Mr. Holmes?” she scoffs. “I tend to think either he was born in a tie, or born knowing how to knot one. Three younger brothers.”

“Ah. Then you’re probably aces with cufflinks.”

She eyes the pair of silver squares I’m holding out. “I have some that might suit you better.” She rummages in her bag, and comes up with a velvet box, which she opens and holds out for my inspection.

“I can’t…” I look at the set of silver and blue cufflinks and matching tie pin, then at Andrea, who is frowning. No use arguing. “…put them on myself. Never mastered that.”

“Helpless.” She puts them on, then pins the tie. “Perfect.”

“Are you sure this suit looks all right?” I look down at myself with a critical eye. It really is a gorgeous suit, and the shirt is just perfect. “It’s just…”

“Sherlock has never complained about any of the clothes I’ve picked for him,” she states with a tiny pout.

“You shop for Sherlock?” While I can’t imagine the great git in a shop without incident, Andrea doesn’t strike me as the type who would do such… well, menial tasks.

“If given the choice between mind-numbing CCTV watching and shopping, guess which I’ll choose?” She pats my shoulder, and goes back to the shopping bag she brought in. “Here are the wildflowers you asked for, and the biscuits.” She hands me the small, wax paper wrapped bouquet, and the mini tin. “And I was able to get the macarons Mr. Holmes is fond of.”

“How much do I owe you for all this?” At her look, I hold up a hand. “If you don’t take money for them, it’s like he’s buying them, and that’s stupid.”

“Just give me forty pounds, and we’ll call it even.”

I hand her the money from my wallet with a smile. “Thank you for taking care of that for me. You’re a gem.”

She puts a Pierre Hermes box on the table. “You can put the biscuits and the sweets in that bag,” she says, pointing at a shiny red bag with a bow stuck to the side. “Mr. Holmes will be chuffed.”

“I can’t imagine him being chuffed about too much of anything that doesn’t involve spying and being an arse.”

“You’d be surprised.” Her tone is all-knowing and smug. (She’s learned well) She hands me a sheet of paper. “Have a look at this, please.”

I frown at the paper, and look at her. “Topics to avoid? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. Please don’t mention anything political, and do remember that you’ve been dating for six months, and yes, it is serious.”

“I’ll say.”

She pats my hand. “You’ll be fine. The car will pick you up at six forty-five. Enjoy the meal, and just let the evening take it’s natural course. Remember, the bigger the fish, the more it fights not to be caught. Goodnight, Greg.”

“Goodnight, Andrea. And if anything goes wrong, make sure you tell my mum I was brave.”

***

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.” Callum the Crusher is standing at the back door of the sedan, holding it open.

“Oh, heya, Callum.” I slide into the backseat of the car with a smile. “Good to see you.”

“You, too. All in?” He makes sure there are no body parts or clothes in the way, then shuts the door.

As he gets in the car, he turns to me. “Up or down?”

I frown for a moment, then smile. “Leave it down, if it won’t get you in any trouble.”

“No trouble. Andy… er, Andrea says I should always ask. Well, unless it’s Mr. Holmes, then it’s always up because he’s got more secrets than a bloke should. I left it down last time because I was supposed to be menacing.” He laughs, and pulls out from the kerb. “How have you been?”

“Just dandy,” I say. “You?”

“Just fine.” He focuses on driving for a bit, as we hit a bit of traffic, so I busy myself making sure the flowers aren’t getting smashed, and that they look fresh. I am nervous as hell. There’s no mirror, so I can’t check my hair, or make sure there’s no film on my teeth, or… shit. Why did I agree to this again? Oh, because I am a besotted fool, and a glutton for punishment, that’s why.

I didn’t really think this through. Well, not with my brain, at any rate. This has disaster written all over it, and if it does go arse up, Sherlock will never let me hear the end of it. He’ll tell my team, who will rag on me for trying to date above my class or some shit, and there will be ‘fancy man’ jokes and such, and just a mess.

I am about to tell Callum to turn around and take me back to my flat, when he clears his throat.

“Clear sailing now, Detective Inspector. Not long until we’re there.” He looks at me in the mirror. “Fancy night out, yeah?”

“Dinner and dancing at the Ritz.”

“Nice place. You look well lush.”

I blush and look away. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. And I’m not trying to harass you or anything, but you’re a good looking bloke. If I weren’t happy with my own lass, I’d make a run for you, even if it meant Mr. Holmes would fire me.”

I stop myself telling him it’s all fake, since I’m not sure how much anyone other than Andrea knows. “You have plans with your lass tonight?”

“Oh, we had a nice leisurely breakfast in bed this morning,” he says shyly. “She’s a simple lass – didn’t want me to make a fuss, but any good bloke knows that you’d better have some flowers or candy on Valentine’s Day, or you’ll be on the sofa for weeks.”

“Months, at least,” I agree. “I think I’ve got all my bases covered, though.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

We chat a bit more, but I’m only half listening, because I can’t really hear him over the pounding of my heart. I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, panic attack, or a nervous breakdown any minute now. I wish I had a bag to breathe in to, or that I could put my head between my knees.

Christ… I must be insane. Or going insane.

“Detective Inspector?”

I blink, and look up. “Sorry… did you say something?”

“Only that we’re here.”

“Oh.” I notice that the door is open, and the hotel doorman is standing there. “Yeah, good. Sorry about that. Thanks for the ride. I’ll… have a good night, Callum.”

“You too, sir.”

I slide out of the car, making sure to grab the gift bag. I nod a thanks to the doorman, brush the imaginary lint from the suit jacket, clutch the bouquet of flowers a bit tighter, and head for the door.

Mycroft is waiting for me in the lobby, and god help me, if he doesn’t look good enough to eat. He’s wearing a dark grey suit, waistcoat included. The trousers are a different cut than I’m using to seeing on him – slimmer, more close fitting, emphasising how long his legs are. The suit has a blue and pink pattern, and he’s played that up nicely with a light pink shirt, and a pink tie with grey stripes. God, he’s gorgeous. I want to strip him out of those clothes and see all that pale skin under those clothes. God...

“Gregory… good to see you.”

I shake myself, and take the hand he’s holding out, leaning in to kiss his cheek. I am his serious boyfriend of six months, so I think I’m entitled. “Good to see you, too, Mycroft.”

If he’s surprised by me kissing him, he doesn’t let on. He pats my back, and lets his hand drop away from mine. “I’m glad you didn’t let your cold feet win out, and that you kept the smoking to a minimum.”

“Shit,” I mutter. “You can smell it?”

“Very faintly,” he says. “I doubt anyone else could. Though my mother has an uncanny knack for sniffing out smokers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I cast an eye over him, and smile. “You look… well put together.” Oh, great… I sound mental. “Lovely shirt and tie, that is. That’s not your usual, is it?”

“A gift from my mother, who thought it in keeping with the spirit of the day. I refused to wear a red shirt.”

“Good on you,” I laugh, then sober. “Yes, well… thank you for sending over the folks for the shave and such. Very nice of you.”

“It was the least I could do. You look very…” He licks his bottom lip. “That’s a perfect colour for you, as I predicted. And the shave and haircut have done wonders.”

“Andrea said the same, which makes me wonder what I must have looked like yesterday.”

“Merely enhancements to what was already there, Gregory.” He clears his throat. “At any rate, I am glad you enjoyed the spa treatment.”

“A bloke could get used to all the… perks that come with agreeing to be your date.” I smooth down my lapels and tug at the cuffs of the shirt. “It’s not like my usual.”

“Heavens, no.” He grimaces. “Apologies. I find that I’m experiencing an uncommon nervousness about introducing you to my parents.”

“I won’t embarrass you, Mycroft. I had two years at charm school. And Andrea briefed me on what not to discuss.”

“No, no… Gregory, please. I have no doubt that you have impeccable manners, and that my parents will adore you, with your thoughtful trinkets, and devastating smile. And therein lies the issue. Do try to keep the charm to a minimum. It won’t do for them to become… attached.”

“And there’s the Mycroft we all know and love.” I shake my head. “Relax, mate. I’m not going to steal your parents from you.”

“Don’t be silly,” he laughs. “I’m not worried about that at all. Just remember, you don’t have to get to know me or my parents. This is all fake.”

I do some laughing of my own. “Oh, I know it’s fake. Just like you. But I’ll try so very hard not to fall in love with you over the duck, you arrogant bastard.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it?” He smirks. “You ‘fancy’ me already. So easy, aren’t you?”

“That may be, but it’s not me sending over expensive gifts to their fake date, is it? Maybe I’m not the only one fancying someone around here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, sod off, you prick.”

He’s about to reply when a low, feminine voice behind him says, “Mikey? Is something wrong?”

He pastes a smile on his face and turns. “Hello, Mummy.”

***

“Oh, shit,” John says. “That’s a bit not good.”

“Yeah, well… it got worse before it got better.”

“I’ll bet sparks were flying all over the place with all the attraction between you two.”

“He just rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, when I wasn’t around him, I was as besotted as a teenager. But when we were face to face… it was like a cat and a mouse. I wanted to throttle him one minute, full on snog him the next. And what made it worse is that it seemed to me that he could turn his emotions on and off like a faucet. Bastard.”

“What did you do?”

“What any red blooded British male would do,” I laugh. “I poured on the charm.”

TBC…

Chapter Text

(Previously....)

“Oh, shit,” John says. “That’s a bit not good.”

“Yeah, well… it got worse before it got better.”

“I’ll bet sparks were flying all over the place with all the attraction between you two.”

“He just rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, when I wasn’t around him, I was as besotted as a teenager. But when we were face to face… it was like a cat and a mouse. I wanted to throttle him one minute, full on snog him the next. And what made it worse is that it seemed to me that he could turn his emotions on and off like a faucet. Bastard.”

“What did you do?”

“What any red blooded British male would do,” I laugh. “I poured on the charm.”

(and now...)

 

“Is everything all right, Mikey?” she asks, stepping forward with a protective vibe only a mother could give off. Her eyes narrow, and she looks like she’s about to let me have it.

“It’s Mycroft,” he says with affectionate exasperation. “And yes, everything is fine. Stand down.” Mycroft leans in, kisses her cheek, and gives her a brief hug. He pulls away, and turns to me. “Gregory, the protective lioness who is silently threatening to tear you apart is my mother, Margaret Holmes. Mummy, this is my… Gregory Lestrade.”

“Too embarrassed to call him your boyfriend in front of your mum?” Margaret Holmes isn’t as lean as her sons, but she’s tall and elegant in her flowy blue dress, and has those odd-coloured eyes like Sherlock. Nothing like I thought she’d be – I was looking for her to be frail and demure, but this woman is strong sturdy, and wields a big stick. I suppose she’d have to with two precocious sons. “I love wildflowers. Are those for me?”

“Um. Yes, sorry. Happy Valentine’s Day, ma’am.” I hold out the flowers to her. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“How very lovely, Gregory Lestrade, the mysterious boyfriend I’ve heard virtually nothing about.” She takes the flowers with a smile, and turns to Mycroft. “Perfect, aren’t they, Mikey?”

“I fail to understand why you named me Mycroft if you were not going to call me by my given name,” Mycroft complains.

“Your grandfather insisted on the name,” his mother says. “And you know how he could be when he wanted something. I wanted to name you Descartes, but he’d promised his father that you’d be named for him. Not that it’s not a nice name, but really, Mycroft Ar-“

“Ah, here’s father,” Mycroft cuts in before she can reveal his full name. (The night is young, and I'm determined) “Gregory, this is my father, Edmund Holmes. Father, this is Gregory Lestrade, my… ah…”

“Your what?” His father asks with a teasing smile. He’s tall and thin, with clear blue eyes like Mycroft's, and cuts a dashing figure in a dark grey suit and blue bow tie that matches his wife’s dress. “Boyfriend? Partner? Mate with benefits?”

“Oh, Father, don’t tease,” Margaret laughs, nudging her husband’s shoulder. “Look at how you’ve made poor Mike blush.”

I look over at ‘poor Mike’, who isn’t exactly blushing, but I can see he’s uncomfortable. Like a good boyfriend would, I come to his rescue. “He thinks if he puts a name to it, we’ll break up,” I quip, stepping forward to shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard you enjoy Walker’s biscuits…?”I hold out the tin of biscuits, which he takes with a warm smile.

“I do love these biscuits. What a lovely gesture. Nice to meet you, Gregory. And please… there’s no need to stand on formality. Anyone who’s good enough for our Mikey can call us Ed and Margaret, right, dear?”

“Of course,” Margaret says with a fond smile. “Father and I despaired of either of our boys finding that special someone, and that Mycroft has found you and brought you to dinner is cause for celebration. He’s never introduced us to anyone before.”

“It just turned serious in the past few weeks,” I say smoothly. Mycroft is doing that blinking thing again, and I swallow a laugh. “And what better time than Valentine’s Day to meet you both, right, Mikey?”

“Mycroft, if you will.” Mycroft looks at me like he’s going to kill me later, and gestures to the dining room. “They’re ready to seat us, so if you would…”

“Yes, of course,” Margaret says. “Ed, do you have your glasses? You know you can’t see without them, and you’re always leaving them behind. And stop humming… you don’t want to embarrass Mikey in front of his beau, do you?”

Poor Mycroft just tries not to blush, and follows them to the table.

***

To say that dinner is the most insane thing I’ve ever been party to would be an understatement. Five minutes after we’re seated, Mycroft’s parents begin to talk.

And talk.

And talk.

Funny thing, they’re only talking to each other. They don’t expect anyone to respond, or to join in. And they talk about everything. There is a stream of consciousness between the two of them that is amazing, but it’s… well, I’ve had interrogations with fewer words. They talk about the table. How the table is placed. The place settings. How the place settings remind them of a place they visited in Wyoming on the line dancing circuit.

They dither (another understatement) over the menu, just as Mycroft assumed they would. They wonder whether the duck will be as good as that at some other restaurant. If the steak will be tender enough for easy digestion. They question the presence of bacon in the spinach, what “Ritz” means when it comes to potatoes, and if there’s a real cream in the peas. Interspersed with this are side conversations about losing glasses, the lack of figs in desserts, and whether Mike has good taste in wine, or is just a wine snob. Mycroft looks like he wants to excuse himself to the toilet and climb out of the window.

After fifteen minutes of indecisiveness, Mycroft takes charge. “Mother, have the steak; Father, you adore lamb. Please have it. An assortment of starters will be brought so that you can sample to your heart’s content. The chef will choose the sides that best suit your mains.” He says this firmly, and with such finality, his parents imply nod, and hand over their menus.

I hide my sigh of relief behind a sip of the most perfect gin and tonic I’ve ever had.

“So, Gregory,” Margaret says, and I hold up a hand.

“Greg is fine. No need to be as formal as Mycroft.”

“Oh, he was always like that,” Edmund says. “Never would call me ‘dad’. Always Father. When the bunny came along, I tried to get him to call me anything but Father, but he was always following behind anything Mikey did.”

“Mycroft,” Mycroft says with a sip of his double scotch. “Please.”

“Oh, behave, you,” his mother says with a stern look. She turns back to me. “Greg… how did you two meet? Mycroft is typically reticent about anything regarding his personal life. I mean, here I was, ready to introduce him to my friends’ niece because they’d be a lovely match, and all this time, he fancied chaps. How embarrassing would that have been?”

“Quite,” I say, making a mental note to say ‘I-told-you-so’ to Mycroft later. “We met through Sherlock.”

“Gregory is the detective with whom Sherlock works,” Mycroft clarifies. “As has been said no less than ten times since I advised you I was bringing a date tonight.”

“Such sass,” Margaret sighs. “I remember now. You helped when he got out of hospital all those years ago.”

“Yes,” I say. “He’s a great help to the force. A bit of a pain in the arse – ah, no offence – but very helpful.”

“It is what first drew me to him, that he was just as fond of Sherlock as I.” Mycroft throws that fake smile my way. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Margaret coos, and smiles with delight as the wait staff sets a fancy dish of chilled prawns on the table, along with the lobster medallions for me, oysters for Mycroft, and a basket of warm bread. “Love at first sight, then?”

“Heavens, no,” Mycroft says with a laugh. “I’m afraid I’m too… well, it’s too fanciful a notion for me to even comprehend.”

“I think it just hit me one day,” I say, avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. “He can be charming and caring when he puts his mind to it. But even still, it took a bit of time for him to see me in that light. Plus, I was mar-” A swift nudge of an expensive wingtip to my shin reminds me of the crib notes. ‘No mention of your marriage’. “Marred by a bad relationship,” I finish lamely. “Made me wary.”

“Ah, well, our Mikey can be persistent when he wants something,” Edward says, sipping his wine. “Always was. Mother, do you remember the time he insisted on dyeing his hair? He was seven, and hated being a ginger. I told him it would darken – mine did – but he wouldn’t listen. Got into his mum’s Clairol and made a big mess of it.”

“A ginger?” An image of a young ginger Mycroft under a tree with a book and a baby Sherlock in his lap comes to mind and I smile. “Oh, how precious.”

“It is not common knowledge.” Mycroft’s tone is light, but there’s an undertone of a threat there.

“Your secret is safe with me,” I say, mentally adding that to the favours he’ll owe me. I turn to his mother. “Are there photos?”

“Plenty,” Margaret says with a conspiratorial smile.

***

As we wait for the mains, I look around the room. There are about twenty couples in all – some same sex, some older, some young. All smiling and happy, wearing their red, tables adorned with roses, and other lovely flowers, and I can’t help but feel a tug of nostalgia for the Valentine’s Days I spent with my exes.

“Which wife are you missing?” Mycroft has leaned in, and his lips are right near my ear.

I pull away a bit, and turn to look at him. “No one in particular. I’ve always loved days like this – Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, birthdays… they always come with a bit of extra special sex at the end of the it. Something a bit naughty, you know… maybe a… ah, special favour, and you get lacy knickers with garters and lots of ribbons. What are you wearing underneath your trousers? Any lace or silk?”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says in that silky, snobbish tone that I love, “but neither. Just plain cotton, if one must reveal such things.”

“I’m finding that quite sexy.” I lean in closer. “Don’t move your hand – your mum is watching us.” I put my hand over his, then slide my thumb back and forth across his knuckles. “You’ve got long fingers. I like that. Can scratch all the itches I can’t reach.”

He puts a hand over mine, stilling my fingers. “Stop trying to seduce me, if that’s what you’re doing,” he says quietly. “There will be no naughty sex for you tonight.”

“Hm,” is all I say to that, and eat another prawn. “This is just decadent.”

“They are rather tasty,” Edmund agrees, dabbing at his lips with the serviette. “Drawn butter should be illegal. My cholesterol – ”

“Now, Ed,” Margaret cuts in, “we’re here to enjoy ourselves. We’ll go for a nice stroll tomorrow, so don’t you spend the night worrying about all that.” She eyes Mycroft’s untouched oysters with a frown. “You are going to eat something, aren’t you, Mike?”

It’s not really a question – more like a threat, and Mycroft predictably bristles. “Mummy…”

Margaret waves a hand in the air. “All right, all right… I’m just concerned that you don’t eat enough, and are one of your diets.” She looks at me. “You’re not pressuring him to be overly thin, are you?”

“Of course not.” I give Mycroft my best smile. “He’s absolutely gorgeous just as he is. I wouldn’t change a single thing about him.”

“Good,” Margaret says with finality. “Because he’s such a handsome man. Not conventionally, you know, saddled with Uncle Rudy’s nose, but I dare say you’ll never find a man with better posture, manners, or style. Quite a catch, our Mikey.”

“Mycroft,” comes the expected correction from my right, and I laugh.

“Quite the catch, indeed,” I agree.

***

“Wow.” John shakes his head, and sips more tea. “I thought my mum was bad.”

“Mrs. Holmes takes first prize, hands down,” Greg says. “She loves both her sons to distraction, and they’ll always be little boys to her. I suppose most parents feel that way.”

“Yeah, I’ll always be twelve to my parents.” John sets his cup down and looks at Greg. “So, what next? You said you were charming, and there was dancing…?”

“Dinner was uneventful, if you take away his parents basically photo-journaling the meal. I mean… you’d think they’d never been out, the way they carried on so. That steak and lamb had more photos than a red carpet event. Mycroft eventually excused himself to ‘take a call’. I think he went to the toilet to chug down a bottle of wine.”

“He left the table? What did you do?”

“Finished the meal, of course.” At John’s look, Greg shrugs. “An expensive meal at the Ritz on Valentine’s Day is nothing to be sneezed at, John. That duck was butter soft, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tasted the whipped potatoes. I think they use farmer’s cheese in them, because they were creamy, with a bit of – “

“Greg.”

Greg blinks. “Yeah, sorry. Just… those potatoes.”

“Time was you’d eat cold chips without blinking,” John teases. “Now you’re going on and on about whipped potatoes and duck. Quite the change.”

“It’s called having class, you arse. I mean, we can’t all live on tea and Mrs. Hudson’s dodgy biscuits.”

“I’m telling her you said that.”

“You’ve thought it, mate. Admit it. Especially those cranberry… things.”

“Yeah, well…” John bursts out laughing. “They are horrible.”

“Yep.”

“So, Mycroft’s off somewhere, probably inventing a war between two countries he’s made up, and you’re left at dinner with his parents. What next?”

“Turns out, Mycroft arranged for his parents to do a bit of swing dancing.”

“At The Ritz?” John frowns, and sets his teacup aside. “I may be classless, but even I know that there’s no swing dancing at The Ritz.”

With a shrug, Greg pours more tea in John’s cup. “There is if Mycroft says there is…”

***

Our dessert plates are cleared away – and oh, god help me, death by chocolate earned its name and then some. I wish Mycroft had been here, if only so I could see his reaction to my reaction. (I made his father blush up a storm). I feel like sliding under the table and having a long nap, but I notice the band setting up, and the staff moving a few of the tables further back from the wooden dance floor.

“I thought there was just regular dancing?” Margaret says. “They can’t need all that room for a box step or waltz, can they?”

“I don’t think so,” Edmund says, frowning at the band. “Maybe we’re not to dance, but they’re having an episode of Strictly?”

“That’s a thought,” I say, thinking of how improbable it would be for Mycroft not to divulge that a major show would be taping after our meal. Not that I put it past the mental bugger, but still…

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” A tall, slender, dark-haired bloke in a white tuxedo jacket is standing near the bandstand. His voice is deep, and rich, and his hair is laid back with lots of product. He looks like something straight out of the forties. “Good evening,” he continues when the room falls silent. “I’m Slim Goodwin, and this is my band, the Midnight Oasis. We’d like to welcome you to The Ritz’s First Annual Swing Evening, where you’ll hear all the hits from your favourite bands of the forties. Dance to your heart’s content. And if you want to hear a song, please let one of the waiters know, and they’ll tell us. We’ll start in just a few. In the meantime, do your stretches, change your shoes – get comfy, because we’re going to dance all night.”

There’s a roar of applause from the crowd, and I frown. Swing dancing. At The Ritz. On Valentine’s Day. And it just happens to be one of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes’ favourite kind of dancing. I smell a rat, and the wind is coming from Mycroft’s direction.

“Oh, Ed,” Margaret beams. “It’s a good thing Mike insisted I wear comfortable shoes, isn’t it? Imagine, swing dancing, here at The Ritz. Oh, I could just burst!”

“She loves her dancing,” Edmund says to me, smiling broadly. “We haven’t been able to get away much this year, though, now that she’s back to giving lectures here and there.”

“Lectures?” I ask, frowning.

Margaret blushes, and takes a sip of her wine. “Now, Ed… Greg doesn’t want to be bothered with all that, so shush.”

“No need in hiding your light under a bushel, dear.” Edmund squeezes her shoulder gently, then smiles at Greg. “She’s a maths whiz. Wrote a few books on the subject. Gave it up for children. But Mycroft sensed she wanted to take it up again, so he helped her reestablish herself in the community. She goes all over, helping students – mostly girls, well, ah, women, get a foot in the door.”

“That’s amazing,” I say, trying not to gush too much. “How many books have you written?”

“Five,” she says, still blushing. “Had a knack for it from childhood. Complex equations and theorems were a breeze for me. My mum was aces at science, and encouraged me, because her dad, who had an extraordinary capacity for languages, stocks, and banking, was not encouraging, and forbade her from pursuing a career as a scientist. Thank goodness she defied him. Would never have met my father if she hadn’t.”

“Your father was a scientist as well?” I ask, fascinated at this new information.

“Astrophysicist,” she laughs. “But she met him at the opera, playing the violin. He’s a distant relative of Sarasate, or some such thing. Mycroft has the chart, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I say with wide eyes. Shit. I had no idea that the Holmeses were so… connected when it came to smarts. Honestly, I thought Mycroft and Sherlock were anomalies. “And what about you?” I ask Edmund.

“I’m just an ordinary man who fell in love with an extraordinary woman,” he says with a shrug.

“Don’t you believe him,” Margaret says firmly. “He’s brilliant at English, and at puzzles and mysteries… that’s where the boys’ curiosity comes from. He’s also very orderly and a wonder at fixing things. You can imagine how much that was put to the test when Sherlock came along.”

I think of all the things Sherlock has ruined at Baker Street, and nod in sympathy. “Oh, yes, I sure can.”

The band tunes up, and Margaret is on her feet. “They’re playing our song, Ed.”

Edmund hauls himself up, and smiles at Greg. “Never could resist her, truth be told.” He takes his wife’s hand and leads her to the dance floor.

The band strikes up a lively tune, and other couples move to the dance floor, and begin a lively dance with some fancy footwork that I’m sure I’d just mess up and end up flat on my face. I bob my head to the music, smiling as Mycroft’s parents do a slower version of the wild dance the others are doing.

“Lovely couple, aren’t they?”

“I thought you’d ditched us.” I turn to Mycroft, who has seated himself. “Crisis averted?”

“As much as such things can be averted,” he sighs. “I do apologise for leaving you with my parents. They can be a bit… much.”

“No, no…” I say quickly. “They were fine. Learned a bit about your family tree. Very interesting. Lots of brilliance there.”

“An odd tree, to say the least.” He waves away the hovering waiter, and takes a drink of wine. “Did you enjoy your meal?”

“It was divine. You’re not going to have anything?”

“I… my mind is a bit unsettled at the moment, and it would be hard for me to digest anything. I’ll have room service later.”

The thought of him lounging about in posh pyjamas and a silky dressing gown, eating a steak is very sexy. I shake my head to clear it, and shift in my chair. “Anything I can do to help?”

He laughs. “You are a gem, Gregory Lestrade. No wonder Sherlock is so fond of you.”

“Fond isn’t the word I’d use, but I will say he tolerates me more than he does the others. I meant, if you wanted to talk it out, or need a shoulder to lean on, or whatever you top secret types do to de-stress, I’m here for you.”

He nods, and we’re silent for a few moments. Then he asks, “Do you dance?”

I look at him, then back at the dancers on the floor. “Not like that. I mean, my Gran insisted I learn to dance – said it was the gateway to life or something like that. I can box step without watching my feet, do a bit of the cha-cha-cha, and maybe the two-step if pressed, but what they’re doing is beyond me.”

“The West Coast Swing isn’t that difficult to learn,” he says. “It’s all in the footwork.”

Surprised, I raise both my eyebrows. “You can do that?” I jerk my chin at the twirling and kicks as the dancers pass by. “How? Dance lessons?”

“You’ve met my parents, haven’t you?” He sighs. “Sherlock and I had lessons. Many, many lessons. Many, many dances. Sherlock is rather good at ballet. I… well, it’s not my strong suit, but the slower swing dancing isn’t beyond my ken.”

“Oh, I’d pay good money to see you dance.”

“You won’t have to pay. My mother will insist I partner with her while Father rests.”

“And you set all this up so your parents would have a good time, knowing you’d have to dance to big band music with me here?”

“I count on your discretion.”

“Do you?”

He turns to me, and gives me a pure Holmesian stare. The one that Sherlock gives just before he blurts out intimate details about your last time having sex. “I know you have a penchant for recording Sherlock, Gregory; however, I must insist that you do not do so tonight. I… well, my minor position in the government might be compromised should certain knowledge come to light.”

“You’re telling me that if the… whoever… find out that you can do the jitterbug, all bets are off?” I roll my eyes. “Oh, please.”

“I am one hundred percent serious.”

“Of course you are. Listen… I only record Sherlock because he’s a prat, and I like to see him taken down a peg. And the bullocks of you being a minor anything…” I shake my head. “Besides, you basically threatened to kill me if I recorded you, and since I like living, and living here in this town, I won’t, all right?” Prick.

“Fine.” He’s blushing, and I swear I want to see if he blushes from head to toe. “And I wouldn’t harm you or send you away, for the record. You are valuable to Sherlock’s sanity, and it would be counterproductive to remove you from his life.”

“Well, thank god for that.” I let out a breath. “What dances can you do?”

“Tap, line, tango, waltz, cha-cha, and a few of the more risqué dances, such as the samba, lambada, and the slow drag.”

“How precious,” I laugh. “I want to see you do them all, especially the risqué ones.”

“I am also well-trained in the art of ju-jitsu, krav maga, akido, wing chun, and key si fighting method.”

“So you could break my spine, and do a merengue on it. Very well-rounded of you, and contrary to all the things Sherlock has said about you being a lazy sod.”

“Oh, I am lazy,” he says with that irritating fake laugh. “The thought of having to dance with Mummy tonight is giving me hives.”

“Aw, poor you.” I smile and wave as his parents twirl past us. “Are we going to dance?” There are more than a few same-sex couples on the dance floor for it not to be an issue.

“Would you like to?” He sounds nervous, which shocks me. “I… can request that they play a song to accommodate the dances you know.”

His offhand tone irks me. “Don’t let me put you out, Mycroft. You’re not obligated.”

“Of course not,” he says curtly. “I do not do things out of obligation, Gregory. I was merely concerned that you would feel your skills were not, ah, up to par, as it were.”

“Oh.” I duck my head in apology. “Well, if you’d like to dance, I’m game.”

“Wonderful,” he says, and his tone is pure sarcasm. “Once I’ve danced with my mother, I’m all yours.”

I wish, I think, and then blush when he gives me a look that says he knows what I’m thinking. But before I can stammer out a reply, his parents are back at the table, laughing, and out of breath. His father flops into the chair with a sigh of relief.

“What a time,” he pants. “But I’m in need of a bit of rest.”

“Your turn, Mike,” Margaret says, holding out a hand. “You can still do the fox trot, right?”

“Of course,” he says, and he’s blushing again. He takes her hand. “Shall we?”

I watch as they walk off. The music starts, and Mycroft takes the lead. And oh, god… if I wasn’t already in love with him, seeing him move across the floor sealed the deal. I’m surprised at how limber he is, and how comfortable he is with the dance. He’s smiling, and confident, and I can’t get past the fact that the man spinning his mum is Mycroft Holmes. His feet move in perfect sync with his mum’s, and he’s moving her around like a pro. He’d be aces on Strictly. Maybe even on the American version. He’d win, hands down. God, he’s sexy like this. Unrestricted, yet in control, and I can’t help but wonder how he’d be in bed… wanton, and wanting, moving in perfect rhythm with me, long legs entwined with mine –

“They do that, you know.”

I turn to Edmund, and hope my face isn’t as hot as it feels. Letting him sneak up on me while having a wank fantasy about his son is a bit not good. “I’m sorry…?”

“Enrapture you,” he says with a nod out to where Mycroft is twirling his mum about. “It’s the last thing on your mind when you meet them, because you’ve never met a more arrogant, infuriating lot in your life. You’re meant to walk away and be done, but you find yourself wanting to get under the starched collar and see what makes them tick. See if you can melt the ice.” He smiles at me. “It takes a special person to do that, Greg.”

I draw in a breath to respond, but he holds up a hand.

“We tend to treat our sons like boys sometimes, but Mycroft is quite capable of making his own decisions. I know he has the weight of the world on his shoulders with his government work, and that he spends a large amount of time seeing to Sherlock, but he doesn’t look out for himself. He’s a solitary creature, but I’ve never seen him so… well, I guess I should say prickly, for lack of a better word, around someone like he is with you, and I think that’s a good thing because it means he cares. I don’t have an issue with him fancying chaps, for the record. I’m for him not thinking that there’s something wrong with fancying someone – you know, for him taking something for himself that’s not to do with work, or with us. It’s just… well, I’ve really no pull or say in all this, but all I’m asking is that if you’re not in it for the long haul, walk away before one of you gets hurt.” And by ‘one of you’, I’m certain he means before I hurt Mycroft.

“I would never hurt Mycroft, sir.” I assure him, swallowing hard. Edmund Holmes appears dotty and a bit of a flake, but underneath all that is a spine made of pure steel. I’m sure he’d have to have it, dealing with a house full of lunatic geniuses. Bugger. What the fuck am I going to do when this is all over, and I’m the one who gets hurt?

***

“Son of a bitch,” John says, slapping his knees. “Shit just got real, I’m thinking.”

“Yep. Father Holmes giving me the ‘hurt him and I will end you’ speech, Mycroft being Fred Astaire, and me caught like a deer in the headlights, having feelings for my fake boyfriend. A right cock-up, for sure.”

“Well, it obviously worked out, because here you are. And damn if I don’t want to find out what happens next, Greg. You should have let me put this on my blog. It’s gold. Sherlock would die because it would get more hits than ‘how to discern footprints’, for sure.”

“Mycroft would have redacted most of it, so yeah, footprints would win.” Greg stands and stretches. “I need the loo. Be right back. We’re getting to the best bit. Body to body contact. And maybe a snog. Yeah, definitely a snog.”

TBC…

Chapter Text

“So,” Greg says, “after a few times of watching Mycroft dance with his mum, excuse himself to take a call, go to the toilet, and as he put it ‘resolve a small nation’s economic crisis’, I’d started feeling like the lonely chap at prom.”

“He left you sitting there?” John laughs. “Sounds like something a Holmes would do.”

“I didn’t just sit there. In fact, after about thirty minutes, the deity who favours lonely coppers who are in love with geniuses took pity on me…”

***

“Hello.”

I look up to see an older, well-groomed chap standing by my chair with a bright smile. “Can I help you?”

He smiles, and gestures to the empty seat at my right. “Can I sit? Looks like you could use a bit of company.”

“Do I?” I look him over – green eyes, dark hair with a bit of grey sprinkled throughout, tall, expensive suit, and an easy smile. Probably my next serial killer. “What make you say that?”

“I’ve noticed your bloke hasn’t danced with you once tonight,” he says, flashing his smile again. “You look lonely.”

“So, you thought you’d swoop in and show my bloke up? That’s some cheek.”

“Oh, god… I’m sorry. No disrespect intended. I just hate to see such lovely shoes go to waste. I’d love to dance with you.”

“Thank you. But I can’t really… this music is beyond me.”

“Not into swing dancing? Can’t jitterbug?”

I watch Mycroft and Margaret do a complicated thing that involves kicking and turning. “No, not really. I mean, I manage, but that looks dangerous.”

“I treated a woman who dislocated her hip line dancing, so yes, it can be.”

“Doctor?”

“Orthopaedic surgeon,” he says, ducking his head. He clears his throat and sticks out a hand. “I’m Daniel Peterson.”

I stand and give his hand a firm shake. “Greg Lestrade.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he says, holding my hand a bit longer than is polite. “Sorry… just… you’re just… dishy. Better up close. I was sat over on the other side with my mum and my sister – you know how it is when you’re the only boy and single. They feel sorry for you, and don’t want you to be alone on ‘special days’. So here I am, on the most romantic day of the year with my mum and sister. My mum thought you looked a bit out of sorts, and made me come over and ask you to dance.” He laughs. “Imagine that… a fifty year-old man being sent by his mum to ask a bloke to dance. Embarrassing.”

“No more embarrassing than sitting here alone, I suppose.”

“If you don’t…well, if you’re not going to dance, perhaps you’d like to get a drink in the bar?”

I laugh at that. “I am on a date.”

“Ah. Yes, of course,” he stammers, and the most lovely blush appears on his cheeks. “I… sorry about that.”

“No worries,” I say. “Flattered and all, but yeah.”

“Erm, well… I guess I should be off then. Thanks for the… thank you for being so gracious.”

I watch him go with a smile.

“What did he want?”

Startled, I turn to Mycroft, who is standing beside me, watching Daniel go back to his table. “Oh… not much. He wanted to dance.”

“Ah.” He wipes his brow with his handkerchief. “Why didn’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know, Mycroft,” I say with a great shake of my head. “Maybe because I’m supposed to be your boyfriend, and didn’t want to be picking up blokes on Valentine’s Day when I’m in a serious thing with you?”

“I appreciate your dedication to the role,” he replies, his tone clipped and droll. “He seemed to enjoy your company.”

“It was two minutes.”

“An eternity for the discerning.” He looks over at Daniel’s table. “A surgeon, here with his mother and sister. Recently divorced, gambling habit, and a penchant for hard spirits.”

“You’re jealous?” I ask, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Really, Mycroft?”

“Why would I be jealous?”

I notice he doesn’t quite meet my eyes. Bloody hell, I’m right. “Because you’re a terrible fake boyfriend, leaving me neglected on Valentine’s Day, while you work and dance with your mum. Poor Daniel just couldn’t resist my forlorn figure, sitting all alone.”

“I… well, that is… did you wish to dance?”

“With you?” Just in case he’s trying to pass me off on his mum or some such thing.

“Of course, with me.” He clears his throat. “I am aware that the dances we’ve done tonight are beyond you. I can ask the band to play something more fitting, if you’d like.”

“Didn’t they do any dancing that wouldn’t break your back in those times? A slow drag, or a nice tush-push?”

“Oh, are you and Greg going to dance, Mike?” Margaret comes back to the table, eyes sparkling and hair a bit mussed. “You’ve been such a good sport, Greg, left sitting here while your boyfriend works.”

“I’m used to it,” I lie, with a look at Mycroft. “I know he’s a busy man, so I’m not fussed.”

“Should have danced with that handsome bloke who was chatting you up,” Edmund says, helping Margaret sit. “Mycroft wouldn’t have minded, would you, son?”

“Of course I would mind,” Mycroft says firmly. “I’ll just go and have a talk with the band about the music.”

“He’s always been rather possessive,” Margaret laughs. “Had a set of books that no one could touch. Kept a hidey-hole of treasures in a tree that Sherlock couldn’t climb. My mum would send biscuits, and he’d never give away a single one, remember, Ed? He would take that tin and shove it on the highest shelf in the cupboard.”

“So, a little hoarder then, yeah?” I chuckle at the image of a wee Mycroft hiding his treasures in a tree.

“But such a good boy,” Ed says fondly. “From a wee lad, he had a mind for figures and languages, and was the most orderly chap. Had to cut his food perfectly, or he’d chuck it aside. Some days, he was positively hellish, and I despaired coming home.”

“And then the bunny came along, and we all started drinking.” Margaret sips her wine, and laughs. “Havoc on so many levels.”

“I can only imagine,” I say.

“Imagine what?” Mycroft is back, and is giving the three of us the Holmes stare. “Mother… are you regaling Gregory with tales of my youth?”’

“No, but your father is.”

We laugh, much to Mycroft’s displeasure, but before he can respond, the bandleader is at the mic, clearing his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you’ve enjoyed the lively portion of our set. But now, in the spirit of the day, we’re going to slow it down a bit, so you couples can dance. We’ll give you a minute to get your partner.”

“Oh, how romantic!” Margaret is practically bouncing in her seat. “Ed, remember the time we closed down that nightclub in New York? Oh, what a time we had!” She takes a large swallow of her wine (polishing it off) and stands. “Let’s go, Ed! I don’t want to run out of petrol before I get a chance to do a slow lindy with you!”

They head for the dance floor, arm in arm, and I can’t help but smile. “Lovely couple, your parents.”

“Yes.” Mycroft looks a bit nervous. “So, shall we then?”

“You needn’t sound as though you’re to be hanged in the morning,” I snap, feeling a bit of nerves myself.

“I’m not sure that wouldn’t be better.”

“You are such an arse, I swear.” I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Mycroft, if you’d rather not, I’ll understand, and will let it be. But, in order for me to dance with someone else, I’ve got to dance with you at least once.”

“Fine.” To my surprise, he grabs my hand, and tugs me to the dance floor.

***

After a few minutes of getting the logistics of two alpha blokes dancing together, he instructs me on the dance – back, side, forward – and I hope I don’t bunge it up too badly.

“Just, ah… go easy on me,” I say as his hand settles on my lower back. “I’ve never danced with a bloke before, never danced backward, or in front of a fancy crowd.”

“You’ll be fine.” He moves me backward with a gentle nudge.

“Says you,” I say, trying not to look down at my feet. The song isn’t as fast as the others were, but it’s not overly slow. “You’re very good at it. Light on your feet.”

“You are not,” he counters as I stumble over his right foot. “Stop counting and allow me to guide you.”

“Right.” I let out the breath I’d been holding since he put his hand on my back, and try to relax. “What’s the song?’

“String of Pearls. Made popular by the Glenn Miller Band.”

“It’s nice. I like the horns. Do you play an instrument?”

“Hm… piano, clarinet, harp, flute, and cello. I prefer the cello.”

I laugh. “Oh, you’re right out of Jeeves and Wooster, aren’t you?”

“Indeed, sir.” His imitation of Stephen Fry’s Jeeves is spot on.

“Wow, that’s perfect, Mycroft. You’re hilarious when you set your mind to it.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Of course.”

“As a boy, I despaired every time Mummy played big band music. As a teen, it became my sanctuary against the screeching of Sherlock. Big band is meant to be played as loudly as possible for the full effect.”

I frown at that. “Sorry, but I can’t imagine you and loud music.”

“I appreciate music in most forms,” he defends. “I must, for my work. For some cultures, there is no greater insult than to not appreciate their music. I’ve come to appreciate it all – jazz, rhythm and blues, opera, classical, doo wop, early rock and roll, many types from other cultures. I do draw the line at whatever it is they’re calling music these days.”

“That’s a right surprise. Would have pegged you for opera, or whale moanings or something equally torturous.”

“Your perception of me is amazingly insane. Whale moanings, Gregory? Why would I torture myself in such a fashion? And where does one get such recordings?”

“I reckon that if anyone could, it would be you.”

“Of course.” He’s quiet for a few moments as we move about the floor to the music. He seems pleased that I’m no longer counting or stepping on his feet.

I’m just thankful that I’m catching on, and that he’s such a good dancer, it doesn’t matter that I’m not. “You probably already know this, but I’m fond of Motown, and a bit of rock, myself. Fancied trying out to be a Temptation when I was a lad. Couldn’t get the moves, though.”

‘I did not know, and apologies for not asking,” he says. “You’re not a bad dancer, Gregory. I suppose you’re just out of practise. You never took your wife…er, wives dancing?”

“Never really made the time,” I sigh. “Not a lot of free time, being a copper.”

“I am keenly aware of how focus on one’s job can be the death of a relationship.”

I wonder if he’s alluding to a failed relationship of his own, but I don’t want to pry. So, as we move about to the music, I become very aware of how he feels in my arms. Warm and firm. His aftershave is subtle but alluring, and his suit coat feels heavenly under my hands. It’s just perfect, and I smile up at him to tell him, but my mind screeches to a halt, and I stumble a bit.

He frowns. “You’re ruining my shoes.”

“Sorry.” I pick up the rhythm after a few seconds, and chance a look at him. Jesus “Ah… well… It’s just… Your eyes are really, really blue. I mean, I’ve never been this close to you, and didn’t know they were so gorgeous. And I didn’t know that you’ve got freckles across your nose.”

“On occasion, I conceal them,” he says stiffly, “but never around my mother, because it upsets her that I’m not, and I quote, ‘accepting of what nature gave me’. Evidently, there are people who would kill for freckles.”

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Kill to see if they’re all over.”

He pulls back, and stares at me. “Gregory…”

“I’m not having you on. You are bloody gorgeous, and I’m wondering how I didn’t see it all those times before.”

“You’re caught up in the spirit of the day.”

“So, if we were dancing on the March bank holiday, I wouldn’t notice how blue your eyes are, or that your freckles are sexy?”

“Why would we dance in March?”

I laugh at that. “So logical, aren’t you? I’d dance with you every day if you gave me a chance.”

“You’re flirting,” he says with a frown. He does that a lot.

I nod.

“With me. Why?”

“Because I happen to find you attractive.” I figure plain honestly will go a long way with Mr. Literal.

“Me, or your perception of me?”

“All of it,” I admit. “Dancing with you like this, being up close and personal is just adding petrol to the fire, Mike.”

“I’ve said that I do not like to be called Mike.”

“You said you didn’t like to be called Mikey,” I correct. “I think Mike suits you.”

“Mycroft suits me just fine. And you are rather cheeky,” he tisks. “But I do appreciate that you’re not toadying or cowering.”

“That would imply knowledge that I’d rather not have. I’m content with you in a minor position in the British Government. The less I know, the better.”

His head tilts to the side, and I know I’m about to be deduced. I brace myself, but all he says is “Ah. Well, hopefully, it will never come to that type of experience.”

“I hope not.” I’m sure sometime after tonight, he’ll have someone brief him on what I call ‘The Incident’, where I ended up chained to a chair and ‘questioned’ by the Russian Mafia. Not something I want to talk about, and definitely not with Mycroft Holmes.

The song fades, but another, slower tune begins. Mycroft lets out a breath. “Oh, bugger.”

“Well.” I drop my hand from his back, and step away. “You’ve fulfilled your obligation, so if you don’t want to dance to this one, I can see if –”

“No, Gregory,” he says firmly, and tugs me back against him. “Despite this being a fake relationship, I would prefer that you did not dance with that doctor.”

“I wasn’t –” I begin, but realise that his parents were right – he is possessive, and doesn’t like to share. And there’s no use lying, because I’m sure he’ll know. “Why not?”

“You’re stepping on my feet again,” he sighs. “This is a slower tempo – I’m sure even you can sway side to side…?”

“Oh, sure…” I move my hand from his waist to his back, and press him firmly against me. At his small squawk of protest, I smile. “Better focus this way.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t move away, but he does shake his head. “You’re going to get us arrested.”

“I’ve got a warrant card, and you,” I say with a smile. “And you’ve got people here to prevent that, I’m sure.”

“Sherlock’s assertion that you are slow is most certainly unwarranted, Gregory. And your dancing is improving with each step.”

“Thank you. I think. What’s this song?”

“Misty,” he says with a laugh. “Made famous by the Clint Eastwood film.”

“Oh, now that’s rich. Wouldn’t have pegged you for an Eastwood fan.”

“I watched the films with Father.” He’s blushing, and it’s just so sexy, I want to full on snog him right here on the dance floor. “And I do not know why I revealed that to you.”

“Just fanning the flames, Mycroft.”

“Concentrate on the music, and on the dance, Gregory. We’ll speak about your madness afterward.”

I close my eyes and sway against him to the music. His hand is warm against my back, and the other is holding my hand tightly. He moves fluidly, and with confidence. No missteps, no fanciness, just straightforward dancing with his head held high, and his feet doing what he wants them to. His legs brush against mine with each step, and I swear that if I’d danced with any of my wives so brilliantly, I wouldn’t be divorced.

“They say that the way you dance is the way you make love,” I say softly.

“I wouldn’t put much stock in that,” he replies with a smirk. “You boasted about your sexual prowess the other day, but if your dancing is an indication, I remain unimpressed.”

“I do my best cha-cha in bed, I’ll have you know.”

He blushes, and takes a step back, creating a bit of space between us. “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“No response necessary because your face says it all.” I laugh as his blush turns to indignation. “Just tell me why you don’t want me dancing with that doctor.”

He tightens his hold on my waist just a tad, and looks at me intently. “Because you belong to me. For this night, this weekend, until you return to work on Tuesday, you are my boyfriend. Which means you must act like it. Which means no dancing with other men. Is that clear enough for you?”

I can’t suppress the shivery thrill that goes through me at his words. “Right.” That’s about all I can manage without sounding like a besotted fool, so I just sway back and forth to the music.

“Oh, you two look so lovely together,” Margaret gushes as she and Ed dance up beside us. “Aren’t they beautiful, Ed?”

“Just so,” Edmund agrees, and twirls his wife around. When he lets go of her hand, she’s at my side, tapping Mycroft on the shoulder. “Don’t be selfish, dear. Share.”

Mycroft lets me go, and dips his head in his mother’s direction. “He’s all yours.”

I bow to his mum, and take her hand. “He’s a good dancer, Margaret. He says you taught him…?”

“You don’t teach Mycroft things, dear,” she laughs. “You show him, and he does it. It’s how he learned to walk, feed himself, play chess, and whatever else it is he knows.”

“Did it frighten you, having sons that were so brilliant?”

“It did at first… I mean, a two year old speaking Latin can be a bit jarring, but then I realised that as smart as they were, they were like baby birds. The first time I let them go to town on their own, they were arrested.” She shakes her head. “Sherlock objected to something, and Mycroft took exception to something, and they ended up in trouble. I got used to it, to them not really fitting in, and made adjustments. I do regret not having them socialise more, but the times I did… what disasters they were.”

“They are mad for you,” I say. “Mycroft doing all this for you… it’s just priceless.”

“You love him.” She leans back a bit, and laughs.

“Nearly,” I say, laughing with her. “It wasn’t… I didn’t intend to fall for him. He’s such a… god, we’re like chalk and cheese, but I do care. God help me.”

“Good. Father insisted you did, but I wasn’t sure until I saw you dance together. He looked content. Well, as content as he’ll allow himself to be, I suppose.”

I hope her heart won’t be too broken if it turns out he doesn’t feel the same. I mean, you never know with this lot, and the last thing I want or need is another doomed relationship.

The songs ends, and we both applaud the band. She excuses herself, and I go in search of Mycroft.

Figuring he’s gotten another call, I don’t want to give Daniel another opportunity to chat me up, so I step over to one of the alcoves to get some air, and walk right into Mycroft, who’s peering out over the city, smoking.

Smoking?

“Oi… are you smoking?”

He shrugs, and takes a long drag. “It would appear so,” he says, blowing a stream of smoke upward.

I try not to salivate at the smoke, or at how sexy he is doing that. Christ, I’m doomed. “Everything all right?”

“Monitoring a situation that sounds worse than it is.”

“That why you’re smoking?” I lean in, and inhale a nose full of that delicious smoke. “I miss it.”

“When was the last time you had a cigarette?”

“Right now.”

He laughs. “I’m not giving you my cigarette.”

“No,” I say, “but I’m going to kiss you, and kill two birds with one stone.”

“Gregory…” He sighs. “I don’t like kissing.”

“Shame, that, because if anyone needs kissing, it’s you. A long, slow kiss that’ll make you tingle all the way to your toes.”

“I cannot fathom a universe in which I would enjoy having your tongue in my mouth for any length of time,” he says in that haughty tone I’ve come to love.

“I wager I could get you to fathom it just a bit.” I move a bit closer. “You think?”

“That’s not how use that word.” He tosses the cigarette butt to the ground and crushes it with his shoe. “We should get back inside for the last dance and champagne.”

“Mycroft.” I’m not the world’s only consulting detective, but I don’t think I’m wrong about this. “You said I was yours. You can't just say things like that, and expect me not to react. I need to kiss you. Just once. All right?"

“Gregory…“ He purses his lips together and huffs. “This is a horrible idea. However, since you’ve indulged me, I will return the favour. One kiss. And only because I want to prove you wrong.”

“Close your eyes.”

“I’d rather not,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“It will enhance the experience if you do. Please?”

“Fine.” He licks his lips and his eyes flutter closed.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to keep from pouncing, seeing his tongue dart across his lips like that. Praying I still have the kissing skills I bragged about, I put my hands on his waist, and press my lips to his.

They’re cold, and as I figured, taste like tobacco. But his lips... bloody hell, his lips. Soft, like the smoothest silk in the world.

Jesus.

I’m fucked.

And I haven’t even really kissed him yet. I pull back, and look at him. He’s frowning, but his eyes are still closed.

“Kissing is not my forte, but I do believe there is a bit more to it…?”

“Yeah.” I take a deep breath, and go for gold, catching his mouth in a soft, slow, sexy kiss that only increases the wanting that’s curling inside me.

His hands come out of the pockets of his trousers to steady himself against the low wall behind him.

I press against him, and deepen the kiss, letting my tongue stroke and tease, pulling back to nibble at his bottom lip, then plunging back in again, sucking at his tongue. I can’t stop my hands from running across the expanse of his back, under his suit jacket, to the silk of his waistcoat, then down to the band of his trousers.

“Mmm…” he groans, and I can feel a shudder move through him. His hands are at my waist, pulling me closer, and his mouth is opening wider, allowing me more access. I take all he’s offering, sucking at the sweet, hot flavour that is just so perfectly him. Christ, I’m on fire. I want to strip him, right here, right now, to just have him, all of him.

When his hips move forward a fraction, I pull away, and put a bit of space between us. I nuzzle at his neck, at his jawline, around his earlobe, wanting nothing more than to mark him, to suck a bruise right on his jaw line that his collar can’t hide. To grab his waistcoat and shirt, and rip them open, to shove a leg between his, and grind against him until we’re out of control, and… damn it.

I pull back to catch my breath, watching as his eyes open slowly, and he does that rapid blinking thing that means he’s out of his depth.

He licks his lips, which are glistening wet, red, and a bit swollen. “I… ah…” His hands fall away from my waist, and he clears his throat. “Well.”

“Are you okay?”

“Very… you are quite skilled, Gregory. I stand corrected.”

“You liked it?”

“I don’t know how I could make it any clearer.”

“You brought that out in me. Your response… it was like… god, Mycroft. How are you not taken?”

“Gregory… It’s not as though I do this often, if at all.” He straightens his clothes. “We should get back.”

If at all? Shit. SHIT. “Of course.”

“I should take this moment to advise you that my mother is insisting that we have a nightcap that includes a few hands of hearts, and she is also insisting on breakfast in the morning. I can have you taken home and brought back in the morning, but I would prefer that you stay in my suite for the night.”

The thought of being in a hotel suite with him is too much to even consider. “I’m only human, Mycroft. And being in your suite, after kissing you like that, having you respond like that… I don’t want to get on the road to town if that’s not my destination, if you get my meaning. Not really keen on spending the night stood in a cold shower.”

“Heaven forbid,” he laughs, and then he’s pulling out his mobile, which is vibrating. “I’m not that cruel, Gregory. I’ll most likely be working, once my parents leave.”

“I’ll want to kiss you again.” And again. No need in hiding how I think the evening should end. I’m sure he can tell by the way I’m trying not to get an erection. “Putting my cards on the table, and all.”

“I’m… not against the idea.” He frowns at his phone, and looks up at me. “I’ve got to deal with this. Please go back to my parents. I’ll be there shortly.” To my utter surprise, he leans in and presses a quick kiss to my cheek, and then he’s off.

“Bloody fucking hell.”

***

“Damn, Greg,” John laughs, “you melted him. And with just a kiss. That's something."

“Only a bit,” Greg says. “The melting came later.”

“Later? You really stayed the night in his suite? On the first date?”

“It was hardly a first date, John… I’ve known him for years. Besides, he spent most of the night working. Well, until I caught a cramp in my thigh.”

“That old trick?” John scoffs. “It worked on Mycroft Holmes?”

“I wasn’t faking. I ah, had a bit of a bad time sleeping, and caught a cramp. And Mycroft has really great hands. And is good at massaging cramps. Among other things…”

“Oi!” John shouts.

Greg chuckles. “Want more tea?”

 

TBC

 

 

 

Chapter Text

“So, get on with it then,” John says. “You got a cramp, and Mycroft…” he frowns, “… has great massaging hands.”

“Well, you’re getting ahead of it. I didn’t just go and hop in bed, John… I do have some class.”

“Snogging out in public at The Ritz. Yeah, really classy, that.” John rolls his eyes.

“I couldn’t resist him. He’s bloody sexy, and kissing him was like – ”

“You’ve said,” John cuts in. “No need to rehash.”

“The thing about kissing a Holmes is that they throw themselves into it. It’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, moving on, because I’m not keen on Mycroft throwing himself into anything like kissing. I want you to skip to the resolution.”

“The best part of the journey is the journey.”

“Thank you, zen master. Just get on with it.”

“Fine.” Greg takes a breath. “So, I went back inside and endured the good-natured ribbing from his parents…”

***

“Oh, someone’s had a bit of a snog,” Margaret chuckles as I slide back into my seat. “Where’s Mike?”

“He ah, work…ah, something to do with work.” I take a gulp of the fresh gin and tonic left for me, and smile at them. “He’ll be here for the last dance.”

“Looks like you’ve already been doing a bit of dancing,” Edmund quips. “The blush of new love is such a lovely thing to see, isn’t it, Margaret? Remember when we met – all those shy smiles, and stolen kisses…”

“Oh, yes!” Margaret beams at her husband, and puts a hand on what I hope is his thigh. “You were practically an octopus in those days… now, too…”

“Yeah, all right,” I cut in. “I hardly know you, remember?”

“You’re Mycroft’s beau, and Sherlock's keeper,” Margaret laughs. “We’re practically family.”

Thankfully, Mycroft walks up, and takes his seat. “Apologies, Gregory.”

“Is it all sorted?” I ask, trying not to look at him.

“Quite,” he says, avoiding my eyes as well. “Champagne will be brought around in a few moments, and we’ll have a final dance. Then we can retire to my suite for a rousing round of hearts.”

His mother gives his father a side-eyed glance. “Ah… well, we… I don’t want to interfere, dear. If you have…ah, other things you’d rather… and your father and I would rather have our drinkies in our suite, if that’s all right with you…”

Mycroft blushes and clears his throat. “Yes, of course. I’ll have it sent up to your suite. Would you like anything else? A spa treatment in the morning?”

“No,” Edmund says with a devilish glint in his eye. “Breakfast in the morning as agreed upon will be fine.” He stands and holds out a hand to Margaret. “Come on, dear… let’s have our last dance, and go have a champagne toast.”

I watch them go, and turn to Mycroft with raised brows. “You still keen?”

“Are you?”

“You’re the Holmes. You tell me.”

He gives me a thorough look, stands, and nods toward the exit. “Nightcap, then.”

I smile and stand. “Love to.”

***

As we head toward the lift, Mycroft puts a hand on my arm. “I have a few loose ends that, regrettably, I must see to. I’ve had some items brought up for you – pyjamas, and so forth. Would you like me to procure valet service for you?”

“What?”

“A gentleman to assist you with your clothing and to see to your night-time preparation.”

Seize the day, my Gran always said. “Don’t I have you for that?”

He blushes, and this time, it’s a deep blush that starts at his neck, goes up to his ear, and down to his cheeks. Very cute, I think. “Yes, well… I will provide that service should you deem it necessary. He hands me a keycard. “Seventh floor, suite b. I shouldn’t be long; feel free to help yourself to any of the amenities as suits your pleasure.”

“You sound less like the bloke who was snogging me on the balcony, and more like a bloody tour guide.” I sigh. “I won’t hold it against you if you’re having second thoughts.”

“I am decidedly not having second thoughts,” he says firmly. “Unfortunately, I do need to resolve this issue without distraction. Once I have, I shall be yours for the evening.”

I smile at that. “I won’t keep you, then,” I say, pushing the lift button. “Try not to start a war on Valentine’s Day, Mycroft.” The doors close before he can reply.

***

The door closes behind me, and I look around in amazement. Suite hardly covers what this is. Ritzy, for lack of a better word, and it fits. I’m no stranger to hotels – I’ve stayed in a few on the Yard’s dime – but nothing like this. There’s a lounge, with comfy looking chairs and a table situated in front of the fireplace. There’s a lovely desk made of dark wood and brass, that looks like it belonged to Henry the Eighth or some such mucky-muck, a balcony, with a lovely view of Piccadilly, and a comfy looking sofa with another table in front of it. Behind this is the lushest looking king-sized bed with mounds of pillows and a fluffy duvet. Visions of Mycroft pressed back against those pillows, me on top of him, kissing him, touching him, running my hands up and down, undressing him –

***

“Greg.” John cuts in. “Reel yourself back in, yeah?”

“I don’t think you understand.” Greg sips his tea. “I am utterly besotted by this point. And all I can think about is having sex with him. All night.”

“And I have to hear about it?” John sighs.

“Like I had to hear about you and that woman who liked having her hair pulled? Every single detail, remember? You can’t be that squeamish about hearing about two blokes shagging, are you?”

“Of course not,” he says. “That it’s Mycroft is making me uncomfortable. Do I need to know that he’s got a mole on his inner thigh, or that he’s well endowed or whatever?”

“Mole on lower left buttock, yes, he is, and yes, you do.”

“Fuck my life.” John hangs his head. “Isn’t there a censored version?”

“This is the censored version,” Greg laughs. “So I was saying…”

***

I wander into the loo, and spy a large tub, and a stack of plush towels on the shelf above the tub – quite convenient, that. There’s a small case on a rack with a small slip of paper with my name on it. I open the case, and smile. Pyjamas, socks, pants, toiletries… I want to marry Mycroft just for perks like this. Not that a man like Mycroft would want me for anything more than a fake date or a bit of a roll in the sack, but a man can dream.

With a sigh, I decide to wait to see how Mycroft is playing this before I do anything rash, like take a bath, and change into pyjamas.

I hang up my suit coat, slip off my tie, belt, cufflinks and shoes, and go back to the lounge. The fire is roaring nicely, and there is champagne, fruit, cheese, and crackers. Nice. I take up the tray, turn on the telly, and pour a nice spot of the champagne. A quick glance at the guide shows that a replay of the earlier match is on, so I turn on the telly, and get comfortable. No telling how long Mycroft will be.

***

“No!” I gasp, coming awake to grab the back of my thigh with both hands. “Son of a bitch!”

“What is it?”

I startle at Mycroft’s voice from the other side of the room. “When did you get here?”

“Half an hour ago. You were groaning in your sleep.” He comes over to stand in front of me. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Shit,” I hiss, and flex my foot back and forth. “Got a heating pad?”

“No,” he says, “but I have studied massage.” At my look, he adds, “It was for Mummy after she was in an auto accident. The general consensus is that I excel at it.”

“Fine, fine,” I growl through the pain. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take off your trousers, and lie across the bed. I’ll only be a moment.” He turns and picks up the room phone, and walks toward the toilet.

I look at the bed, and consider my options. My thigh is throbbing so badly, I don’t want to stand, but I certainly don’t want Mycroft to put his hands anywhere near me. Christ… it’s cake or death all over again, and again, there’s no fucking cake. I really hate this. With a groan, I manage to shimmy out of my trousers, but there is no way I can hop over to the bed.

“Let me help.”

I take Mycroft’s outstretched hand, and haul myself off of the sofa. I’m surprised at how strong he is, and how soft his hands are. I’m also surprised that he’s now in rolled up shirtsleeves and trousers. And shoeless.

Saints in heaven, save me.

We manage to get me to the bed without incident. Well, without tears. Leaning against him in just my pants… only the searing pain in my thigh keeps me from doing something foolish like licking his long, sexy neck, or sliding a hand under his shirt.

“On your stomach, please.” His voice is steady and comforting, and just a tiny bit amused. “Get as comfortable as you can. Let me get the door.”

“The what?” I ask just as I hear a light tapping on the door. Bloody Holmeses.

He’s back in under a minute, and is shoving a banana under my nose. “Eat this.”

“Very kinky, Mike.” Wish I could have heard him asking the concierge for a banana at two in the morning.

“Potassium,” he laughs. “Not innuendo. And it's Mycroft.”

“Hate bananas.” I groan as another spasm shoots through my thigh. "Mycroft."

“No wonder you have cramps on a regular basis.” His tone is smug, and amused, which only he can do.

“I won’t ask how you know that, but this didn’t come from a lack of vitamins,” I hiss, rubbing my thigh as best I can. “And I’ll explain, but could you, you know, get on with the massaging? This is killing me.”

“Certainly.” He moves my hands, and puts his thumbs directly on the knotted muscle. “This will hurt a bit at first, but try to relax.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He doesn’t answer. I feel a slight pressure from his thumbs, then he’s moving them up and down, easing the tightness with each motion. “There’s a scar here.”

“Yeah. Knifed.”

“Hm. Clean through, it appears. Is this to do with the incident you’ve refused to discuss with me?”

“Maybe.” I really don’t want to talk about that right now. “Rain check?”

“Of course. Do you have cramps often?”

“If I’m on my feet for long periods, yes.” I groan as his thumbs hit a sensitive spot. “I’m a bit rusty at dancing. Might have triggered…oh… that feels lovely.”

“I have a salve to apply as well. Pardon my familiarity.” He pushes my shirt tails aside, and the leg of my briefs up. I hear him gasp.

“The scar is well healed, Mycroft. Barely noticeable.”

“It’s not… ah… your… well.”

“What? You’re not making sense.”

“You’ve got… your arse.”

“What about it?” I twist to look over my shoulder to try to figure out what he’s on about. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s perfect,” he says in a rush of words. “Like a… plum. Or a comma, perhaps. It’s just gorgeous.”

“Mycroft!” I laugh.

“I am merely being truthful,” he defends, and I know he’s beet red at this point. “Apologies if I’ve overstepped my bounds.”

“Oh, this you’re apologising for? You are mental.”

He resumes the massage, this time with his hands, making circular motions from the back of my knee to the point just below my right buttock. And I swear to all that is holy, if I wasn’t in agony, I’d roll over and jump him.

After a few minutes, I feel a warm heat on my thigh. “A towel covered in menthol, warmed in the microwave,” he explains. “It will ease the muscles. Breathe in and out, Gregory. Focus on something pleasurable.”

I breathe in, then out, thinking of the kiss we shared on the balcony. All the while, his hands are moving the towel along my thigh. If I were a cat, I’d be purring. His hands are strong, his touch is firm, and I can feel the cramp easing. Jesus, what a gift this is… “Can I ask you a question?”

“I cannot assure that I will answer.”

“Who takes care of you?”

His hands still. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just asking… you run the world, you take care of everyone – Sherlock, your parents, the government – who’s there for you?”

He resumes massaging. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’m fine.”

“I know. But you should let someone do it for you.”

“Are you volunteering for the job?” He’s gone back to icy, and I’m almost sorry I asked.

“Me?” I laugh, forcing myself to keep it light. “I’d drive you mad in a day. Or vice versa.”

His thumbs are lightly caressing the spot just below my buttock. “There is always some madness in love.” Less ice there, but still…

“Shakespeare?” I ask, wondering where this is going.

“Nietzsche,” he corrects, and just like that the ice is gone. Must be a defence mechanism, that icy demeanor.

“Ah. Good to know.”

“I love that you’re not pretentious, Gregory.” His thumb moves up, lightly caressing my arse. “We are not so different, you and I. We want the same things – to work for the greater good, to keep Sherlock off the drugs, to come home to solitude, and to be understood. I don’t care if I am understood, but I am not unaware of the pleasure one would derive from such a thing.” He drags his hands back down, and his thumbs are back on task, massaging out the cramp, which has eased considerably.

“You have great hands,” I groan as the touch grows more firm. “Perfect. Long fingers, soft palms, deft touch… you could make loads of money at massage.”

“I am not fond of touching people,” he says, moving his hands up, and under my vest.

“Christ,” I moan. His hands are cool on my lower back, and I grit my teeth in an effort not to arch upward. “You’re supposed to be easing my tensions, not causing them.”

“Oh, am I making you tense?” he asks, and his lips are right near my ear. I didn’t even hear or feel him move. “I do so apologise.”

“Mycroft…”

“I enjoy hearing you say my name,” he says with a nip to my ear. “Your voice is rough, yet lyrical, and rather sexy. You say my name in that tone, and I shiver.”

I swallow hard. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” he croons, sliding his hands down, then around to my sides. “Would you say it now,
Gregory?”

“I, ah…” His hands are resting on my hips, and I wiggle a bit. “You shouldn’t tease me, Mycroft…”

“I am not teasing you, Gregory.” He moves again, and is straddling my thighs. “Is this all right?”

“Be better if you let me turn over,” I say, turning to look at him. “Please?”

“So impatient,” he tisks, kissing the nape of my neck. “I want to explore your sensuous nature without the distraction of your formidable penis.”

I laugh at that. “I’ve never had it referred to as such.”

“Hm. I could commission sonnets to extol the loveliness of your arse,” he whispers, his hands on said arse. “Pert and perfect. Shapely. Firm. It is what I first noticed about you, that day at Sherlock’s. Even in your horrid coat, I could see its beauty. God in heaven, Gregory, I would marry you on its merits alone.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or horrified. You either sound like a serial killer, or someone who is obsessed.”

“Obsessed,” he says with a chuckle, and a nip to my neck. “Murdering is such a messy business.”

“Sherlock would probably catch you at any rate.”

“Only if I was careless.”

“This has to be the strangest conversation I’ve had whilst having a snog,” I laugh.

“Good. I detest normalcy.” He’s silent for a bit, and then I see his shirt hit the pillow next to my head. “A shame, treating my clothes in such a manner. What are you doing to me, Gregory?”

“Seducing you,” I say, wishing I could see his face.

“And you are good at it.” His vest joins his shirt. “I should let you turn over. Remove your shirt. Rub my chest against yours… hair to hair… I’m certain I’d die from the pleasure…”

“You’re trying to kill me.” I lift my hips slightly to relieve the pressure on my poor cock, which is hard as steel. “How will you explain it, if I die here in your posh suite?”

“Viagra-induced priapism caused your heart to fail.”

“How embarrassing.”

“For you, yes. I would be highly sought after for my prowess.” He kisses my neck again, then runs a hand through my hair. “How is your hair still so thick? You’re fifty with the hair of a teen.”

“Clean living. And vitamins.” I shiver as his nails scratch at my scalp. My hair is one of my biggest erogenous zones. “Mycroft… that’s… oh, sod it, let me turn over…!”

“Not yet.” His hands continue their lazy massage of my scalp, and I can’t help moving my hips against the bedding beneath me. “Be patient.”

“You’re torturing me…”

“Yes.”

“I… Mycroft…”

“That’s it. Hearing you say my name is so arousing. You make me want things….” He moves up, so that he’s sitting on my arse. The wool of his pants feels delicious against my overheated skin, and I let out a groan. “Am I hurting your leg?”

“Not my leg, no.” The feel of him on my arse, the heat of his chest through my shirt, the touch of his hands is going to undo me. “I need to turn over, though.”

“Soon.” His hands begin to knead my shoulders with firm strokes, easing the knots and tension there. “I had no idea it would be like this, that I would react to you in such a manner. I find that I want to experience everything, to wallow in everything you have to offer.”

“Yes,” I moan.

“Not tonight. And no, I am not teasing you. I still have work to finish, and will not be able to focus if I have it off with you. And I am not prepared to have intercourse with you.”

“Ah,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Saving it for marriage, eh?”

“No, but I feel that my inaugural foray into such waters shouldn’t be rushed.” He lifts off me, and stands. “Turn over.”

I turn over with a grin, not at all ashamed that my erection is tenting my briefs. The sight of him, standing there shirtless makes me even harder. I open my mouth to say something lewd, but my mind comes to a full and complete stop. What the fuck? “Wait… you’re… you haven’t… ever…?”

“Had sex?” He throws his head back and laughs that silly villain laugh of his. “No, Gregory… I haven’t. Is that an issue for you?”

“No,” I say quickly. Quite the opposite, really. “No. Just… why not?”

“I could tell you,” he says darkly. “But then…”

“Oh, bloody hell, Mycroft.”

***

“Wait,” John says. “Are you telling me that Mycroft hadn’t ever…?”

“That is what I’m telling you,” Greg says gulping the last of his tea.

“Never? Not even in school? Why not?”

“Because he felt it was beneath him,” Greg says with a sigh.

“It was beneath me.” Mycroft breezes into the room, removing his coat, gloves, and scarf. They are laid on the armchair with care. He turns to Greg with a smile. “Regaling John with the tale of how we met and married, Gregory?”

“Shit,” John says, knocking his teacup to the floor. “Shit, sorry. Sorry.” He’s dabbing at the small spot of tea on the floor with his napkin. “Shit.”

“It’s tea, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says, amused, “not a caustic chemical. It won’t stain.”

“Oh.” John straightens, and stands. “I, ah… that is… we were just…” He coughs, and looks away. “I am so fucked right now.”

“John, calm yourself,” Greg laughs. “You’re about to go into shock.”

“Yeah,” he says, and sits back down.

“Just breathe for a bit,” Greg orders. He turns to Mycroft. “All done?”

“Thankfully, yes.” Mycroft looks at him. “If you wouldn’t mind...?”

With a smile, Greg goes over and puts an arm around Mycroft’s waist. “You weren’t hurt?”

“I was well away from the danger,” Mycroft says, pressing his lips to Greg’s for a long moment.

Greg is the first to pull away. He looks over at John, who is redder than a cherry, then back at Mycroft. “Hungry?”

“Most certainly,” he says with a smile. “But poor Doctor Watson would most likely faint if I were to push you down on the sofa and kiss you thoroughly, so I’ll go and warm the shepherd’s pie instead. And I do hope you saved me some trifle.” He nods at John and heads for the kitchen.

“Shit,” John groans. “You've domesticated Mycroft Holmes, who was a bloody virgin. I’m never going to be able to look him in the eye again.”

TBC…

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

 

Greg looks over at John. “You all right, mate? You look a bit dazed.”

“You could have warned me he was back,” John says, giving Greg an accusatory glare. “I’m never going to be able to look at him again.”

“You’re being dramatic. And you knew they’d be back eventually.” Greg frowns. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Probably in your bedroom, rifling through your night table.”

“I hope not.” Greg laughs. “There’s some disturbing stuff in there, like that –“

John holds up a finger. “No. We’re not doing this. No more talk of sex, and virgins, and Mycroft’s long fingers or the beauty that is your arse. I’m done.”

“Oh, Grant,” Sherlock says, not looking up from his phone as he enters the room, “you haven’t been boring John with the sad tale of how Mycroft manipulated you into marriage, are you?” He looks at John. “And from the horrified look on my blogger’s face, you’ve gotten to the Mycroft-is-a- virgin part. How dull.”

“John isn’t complaining,” Greg replies with a smug smile. “He’s going to put it on his blog.”

“Like Mycroft would let that happen,” Sherlock smirks back. “He’d black out online communications for months first.”

“Are you all right?” John is over and standing in front of Sherlock, giving him a thorough looking over. “Any cuts, bruises or things I should see to?”

Sherlock snorts. “Hardly. Brother Mikey wouldn’t let me do any of the chasing.”

“Good for him.” Greg shakes his head in frustration. “You weren’t supposed to be chasing, just providing logic and deductions. Is the threat to John resolved?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock sighs. “It seems there was an incident when we attempted to access his computer.”

“So then what are you two doing back here?” John demands. “Get back out there and catch him!”

“Calm yourself, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says, sitting at the table with a small portion of shepherd’s pie and a glass of wine. “We returned so here to use the, ah… equipment I have at hand to access his database. The scan takes approximately eleven minutes.” He looks at Sherlock. “Eight minutes remaining, dear brother. You should eat something so that you aren’t petulant.”

“You sound like John,” Sherlock complains. “Digestion interferes with my ability to reason.”

“You two are mental,” Greg says. “He won’t eat, and he won’t have sex. It’s a wonder how you both managed to function at all before John and I came along.”

John blushes and refuses to look anywhere near Mycroft. “You should have something, Sherlock. Tea, maybe?”

“I’ll have that tea my mother sends, if John hasn’t had it all.” Sherlock looks around the kitchen. “Ah, a cup left. I’ll have to ask her to include you in her monthly care package sending, John. She’ll love having another person to dote on. Oh!” He whips out his mobile and moves his thumbs over it rapidly.

“Oh, she’ll love that,” Greg says. He pats his pockets with a frown. “Look… all this waiting is driving me batty. I’m going to have a smoke.”

Mycroft sets down his fork. “Gregory, you’re doing so well… you don’t want to sleep in the spare room again, do you? Also, if you leave Doctor Watson here with me while Sherlock is preoccupied with the codes and ignoring him, he’ll most likely have a panic attack.”

“I’m fine,” John says, still not looking at Mycroft. “And you’re not going to start back smoking, Greg.”

“Fine.” Greg sits down and folds his arms. “This is nerve wracking. Couldn’t you just be a normal bloke, John? Why can’t you just be cute and cuddly in your bloody jumpers, and leave the danger to the professionals?”

“I was a soldier. A professional one, at that. Besides, all coppers do is stand around, waiting. What’s the difference?”

“Too close to home. And annoying. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Finish your story,” Mycroft says, standing and carrying his plate to the sink. “I’m going to be another hour or so, and then we can take our leave.”

Greg steps up next to him. “Or so?”

“Thirty minutes, maximum,” Mycroft amends. “I appreciate your patience, Gregory.” He leans in and plants a quick peck to Greg’s lips. “We’ll be in Cardigan before you know it.”

Greg runs a hand down Mycroft’s lapels. “Yeah, all right. Don’t blow up anything along our trip route.”

“I’ll try.” Mycroft looks at Sherlock. “Shall we?”

Sherlock blinks and takes a large gulp of tea. “I think I’ve solved it. Let’s go, Mikey.”

“Mycroft, if you don’t mind.” Mycroft smiles at John. “I appreciate your patience, John.”

John looks at a spot over Mycroft’s shoulder. “I appreciate you making sure I don’t get kidnapped.”

“You will have to look at him eventually,” Greg laughs as Mycroft and Sherlock take their leave. “He’ll turn up at Baker Street with a file or something for Sherlock to do. What are you going to do then… run?”

“Yes. Fast and far.”

“You want to hear the rest?”

“Are you going to talk about having sex with Mycroft?”

“Yes, and you’re going to listen. And not interrupt, yeah?”

“Greg – ”

“John, be fair.” Greg sighs. “I mean, it’s only putting you off because it’s Mycroft. If I was telling you that me and some bloke got off in the backseat of a car at the back of Tesco, you wouldn’t bat an eye.”

“I might bat an eye or two,” John says, his tone dry. “I just don’t want to picture Mycroft’s… parts touching yours. It’s…” He sighs. “Gross.”

“All right, all right. I will say up front that we didn’t have sex. But there was touching. And it was intimate, and I’m going to tell you all about it…”

“You couldn’t just let the kidnapper get me…?”

“Sherlock would never forgive me.” Greg laughs. “So, there we are, all hot and bothered….”

***

“That’s a curious mixture of arousal, concern, and curiosity, Detective Inspector.”

I frown at his use of my title and sit up. “Hey… don’t shut down on me, Mycroft. I’m human – of course I’m all of those things. Mostly curious. And since we’re both half-naked, how about you say my name, yeah?”

“Apologies.” He sits down on the padded chest at the foot of the bed. “Has my unexpected revelation put a damper on our nightcap, Gregory?”

“No, not at all. But as I said, I’m curious. Why haven’t you, ah…?”

“Honestly, it’s one of those things that you think about constantly, and then as time goes on, fade into the background of life. As a teen, it was on my mind constantly but I was not… well, in those days, preferring the same sex was not on, so I couldn’t indulge my yearnings.” He looks at me. “Oh, of course I could have engaged the services of a professional, or of a unscrupulous person from an advert in the back of a gay magazine, but with my eye on a certain career track, I knew even then that I couldn’t run the risk of an anonymous encounter rearing its ugly head in the future, could I?”

“And now?” I really want to know what’s on the table here. “Are you against it?”

“I’m not certain if ‘against it’ is the correct wording. I have performed the act on others, though quite sparingly, but have not been on the receiving end, so to speak.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not so unusual. Some men just aren’t into that.”

“And are you?”

“You’re the Holmes. What do you think?”

“I think you’re a hedonistic sex maniac, and will avail yourself of whatever happens to be on the table.” He laughs. “And I find myself intrigued by that.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or terrified,” I admit.

“A healthy mixture of both would be highly beneficial to me.”

“I’ll do my best.” I look at him. “So, you fancy me? Is that what we’re doing here?”

“I find your honesty quite refreshing, Gregory. And yes, I do fancy you. I didn’t think it possible after the trouble I had with that cellist.”

“The one Sherlock mentioned the other day?” At his raised eyebrows, I let out an exasperated sigh. “I am a detective, Mycroft. Not an imbecile. What did you do to the cellist?”

“It’s what I didn’t do that upset the, well, I hesitate to say relationship, because it was far from that. I simply found someone who did not annoy me, and spent a few hours with him as time permitted. Unfortunately, it did not go well, because of my views on sex. I opined that makes one emotional, unbalanced, and dulls the senses. Clark, the cellist, refused to understand my, ah, hesitance to indulge him sexually. It made him discontented. His manner became clingy, then turned into jealousy. He became relentless, and as a result, had to take a break from the symphony to regain a sense of balance.”

I don’t want to think about where Mycroft sent the poor man, though I suppose I can’t blame a chap for being obsessed. Mycroft has that effect on people. “I’m not the clingy sort. I’m too busy to be chasing you about, trying to have sex with you.”

“Oh, I know that, Gregory. But you should know that I find that sex is mostly pointless, messy, and emotional.” He gives me that smug smile. “I do like you, but intercourse is not on the table at this time. It’s dull, and an indulgence I can do without.”

“Is that right?” I get up, and go over to where he’s sitting. “Then just what am I doing here? I’m no Holmes, but I know when someone wants me. You can pretend that I’m here to fool your parents, but we both know that you want to get messy with me.”

“I don’t –” he begins.

I put a finger to his lips. “You can’t fool me on this, Mycroft Holmes. You don’t have to have ah, penetrative sex with me, but you’re not against messing up this bed for a few hours, are you? Be honest.” I flick my eyes over his bare chest and smirk at him. “You haven’t even put your shirt back on. Why is that? Oh, because you want to continue what we started, don’t you?” I don’t wait for him to answer. I figure if a bull was ever to be taken by the horns, it was this one, so I do what I think is best, and press a kiss to his freckled shoulder, then bite down gently. He shudders, and I pull back. “Is this all right?”

“Y-es,” he croaks, and clears his throat. “That is, I am amenable to whatever it is you wish.”

I enjoy the rapid blinking of his lush lashes for a bit, then smile down at him. “Oh, no… don’t be all proper about it. I like it when I befuddle you.”

“I’m not befuddled at all, Gregory. Just… anticipatory.”

“I’m not the smartest man in the world, but I think that if you’re anticipating something, it can’t be all that pointless, right?”

“In a broad sense, I suppose so.”

“I know your type rather well. Your poor cellist was going about it all the wrong way. You think you’re above it, but all you really want is someone that isn’t afraid of you, and who knows what to do with you. Like this…” I put my lips on his neck (as I’ve been dying to do for ages) and suck lightly. “You taste like vanilla. How is that possible?”

“You’re most likely projecting.”

“You think I’ve fantasised that you taste like vanilla?” I lap at his neck, alternating between biting and sucking, loving that he bruises so easily. “That’s rather tame, considering the wanks I’ve had, thinking about you.”

“Have you?”

“Oh, yeah,” I say lecherously. “Those long legs around my waist, and those long fingers all over me… umph. Perfect wank material.”

“Good heavens.” He blushes, then clears his throat. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit, I’ve considered taking myself in hand, thinking of you like this.” He spreads his legs, and tugs me forward by the shirttails. He rubs over my arse, then puts his hands inside my pants. “Absolutely glorious, your arse. However, in my fantasy, there were fewer clothes…”

“Oh, well, let me help with that.” I shrug out of my shirt, and let it drop to the floor. I look down at myself, and smile. Not bad for a bloke of fifty. I mean, my stomach isn’t flat, but it’s not a pot-belly by any means. Well fit, if I must say so myself. “Better?”

“Hm.” He gives me a head to toe look. “Vest and pants off, shirt back on.”

Oh, you kinky devil, I think. No wonder Andrea insisted on this shirt – he fancies me in it. I take off my vest, toss it aside, and put the shirt back on, letting it hang open. Not quite ready to take my pants off. “Quid pro quo, Mycroft.”

“I’m shirtless,” he says with a frown. “What more do you want?”

“I want it all,” I say firmly. “Whatever you’re giving, I’m taking.”

“So far, all you’ve done is talk.”

I look at him. He’s not wearing that annoying smirk, but his eyes… he’s laughing at me, the prick. “I was going slowly, with you being a virgin and all. Didn’t want to spook you. But since you’ve done it before, however sparingly, there’s no need to treat you with kid gloves then, is there?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good. Any last words?”

“Yes. Under no circumstances should I have an orgasm. Understood?”

“Why not?”

“I am currently monitoring a rather volatile political situation in… well, you don’t need to know all that… and cannot allow myself to be distracted by the endorphins and subsequent lethargy that comes with such an indulgence. However, I am not averse to traveling all roads leading to such pleasure.”

“That sounds so sexy when you put it like that. Let’s indulge you, then.” I dip my head and kiss him, soft and gentle, teasing his lips open with my tongue. God, he tastes delicious. Like spice and smoke and… something that’s just so him… I want more of it. I want him, under me, those long fingers all over me, his soft lips to wrap around me and suck, tease… “Mmm…”

***

John groans as though in agony, but doesn’t say anything. He buries his face in his hands and shakes his head.

Greg chuckles and continues.

***

He groans and pulls me closer, deepening the kiss. His hands are at my waist, pushing my pants down my thighs with an urgency that surprises me.                

I lean back, ending the kiss. “What are you doing?”

His tongue darts out to lick his already moist lips. “Undressing you. I want to touch you.” His hands move down my back to cup my arse. “So perfect,” he murmurs. “The first time I saw you, I noticed. Bending over to get your coffee from that horrid machine at the hospital. I’d never really felt that type of lust before.”

“Not even with your cellist?” Not that I’m insecure or anything…

“I was attracted to him more as an artist than a man. He was an excellent cellist.”

“Good to know.”

“And his arse… sad to say, flat as a board.” He squeezes me, then lets go. “Rather firm for a man of your age, given that you spend a considerable about of time seated. Lovely.”

“If you keep doing that,” I swallow hard and move my hips forward slightly, “someone is going to have an orgasm.”

“You can have all the orgasms you wish,” he says, still kneading my arse with firm hands. “Oh, dear Gregory… you have no idea…”

“Yeah, I do,” I say, gripping his shoulders and pushing him back on the bed. I step out of my pants and climb on top of him. “Oh…” He feels heavenly. Soft hair on his chest, thick and reddish, with gorgeous brown nipples peeking through. I dip my head and take one in my mouth, chuckling as his hips thrust upward. “So responsive, aren’t you?”

“I haven’t… haven’t let anyone touch me in such a manner in quite some time. And when I have, I’ve always been the one in control.”

“You’re still in control now, love,” I assure him. God, I can’t stop kissing him, touching him… I nip at his nipple, tugging at it gently. “As much as I want you, I’ll do whatever it is you want.”

“Yes, you will, won’t you, dear Gregory…?” He smiles and moves against me, the wool of his trousers rasping against my erection, stoking the building fire in me. “You like that?”

“I like you doing it. I want to get you out of your trousers – not that I don’t like all this expensive wool rubbing against me, but I don’t want to mess them up.”

“I have others.” His tone is full of cheeky lasciviousness, and I love it.

“So then take these off.”

He blinks up at me, then shifts his legs. “Your assistance would be appreciated.”

“Mm,” is all I say to that. I kiss a trail down his chest, wondering just why in the hell Sherlock calls him fat. I mean, he’s got a tiny bit of extra weight around the middle, but it’s sexy as fuck on him, and I just want to bury my face in the softness that is his stomach, and bite and lick until he begs for mercy.

“Gregory,” he hisses, and shifts his body away from my lips.

“Ah, sensitive there, yeah?” I file that away for future reference, and move downward. I unfasten his trousers, and push them down past his hips, planting a line of kisses down to the opening of his pants. Contrary to what he said earlier, he’s wearing grey pinstriped cotton boxers. And if they aren’t the most old-fashioned, sexiest pair of pants… “This is just decadent, Mycroft. Shame on you, enticing me with these sexy pants.” I rub my cheek against the soft cotton, and feel his cock stir slightly. “So sexy…”

He frowns. “They’re plain cotton, Gregory. Hardly sexy.”

“On any other bloke, sure,” I say, dipping a finger along the waistband. “But on you… pure filth.”

“You’re projecting again.”

“Yep.” I skim my lips past his semi-hard cock, down to his legs. “Look at these legs… long and creamy, no flab here… you must run or work out, yeah?”

“Treadmill,” he says, grimacing. “Rowing. Needs must.”

“Done you good, because your thighs look like they could crack a nut.” I laugh at the naughty double meaning. “I’ve dreamed of having you under me like this. Kissing you here…” I put my lips on his inner thigh and suck hard. “…making you hot, making you want me.” I suck again, and a lovely mark appears. “Look at that… I’ve marked you.”

He looks down with a smile, and kicks his trousers off his feet. “I will be the envy of all the ministers when I have my weekly sauna meeting.”

“Oh.” I blush. “I’m sorry… I should have asked first. Is it going to cause a problem?”

“Other than fending off unwanted advances,” he laughs, “I rather like having it there. In fact, you should do the other. Symmetry is important.”

“With pleasure.” I latch my lips on to the spot just below his boxers, and suck hard.

“Ah.” Mycroft’s hands are in my hair, pressing me harder against his thigh. “That feels divine.”

I lift my head. “How am I going to let you go when this is all over, Mycroft?”

“Focus on the now, Gregory, and allow the morrow to see to itself.” He pets my hair, then squeezes my shoulder. “Come back up here, please.”

“Right.” I crawl back up and settle on top of him. “You have iron control.” I move against him, letting him feel how hard I am. “What’s your secret?”

“Since I seldom find myself pinned beneath such a fine specimen of manliness, it is simply a matter of the mind. Do not presume that it is easy,” he adds. “In fact, I am at critical mass.”

“We’d better cool off, then. Wouldn’t want to start a war because you're hyped up on endorphins.” I roll over, and flop on my back beside him. “You do burn a man to a crisp, Mycroft. God help me.”

“Ah, you poor devil.” He rolls onto his side, and props his head on his hand. “You’re absolutely gorgeous. All this tanned skin, just begging to be caressed and licked… burning, indeed.”

“You silver-tongued devil, you.” I shiver as his lips press against my side. “You have great lips.”

“Mmm…” The sound vibrates against my ribs, then his tongue is licking across my stomach, down to the band of my pants. He lifts his head to look at me, and the sight of those lovely blue eyes on me while he’s so close to my dick is the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. Wish I could take a photo, but he’d probably have me killed. “What do you want, Gregory?”

“I want you,” I say without hesitation. “To be with you. Can you make that happen? Can I have you?”

He’s quiet for a moment, then he huffs out a laugh. “Most men, when faced with the prospect of having a powerful man so close to their genitals, would choose to have fellatio performed.” He eases my pants down and exposes my fully erect cock. “But not you. Even painfully aroused, you want more than just a one-off Valentine’s Day shag. I commend you.”

“I’m…” I move upward as his hand wraps around me. “Mycroft…”

“And just what will you do with me, should I give you what you’re asking for, Gregory?” His hand moves down slowly, then up. “Tell me.”

“I…” I groan loudly, watching as he picks up the pace. “I would take care of you,” I say, my voice shaky with desire. I want nothing more than to flip him over and grind against him until I come. “Be nice to come home and have someone to sit in front of the fire with, wouldn’t it? To share a meal, or a coffee, or a bed…”

“I’m not lonely, Gregory,” he says firmly, his hand still moving up and down.

“I know,” I gasp as his hand twists. “God… I just… you want it, don’t you? Tell me…”

“Would I be here, touching you like this, if I didn’t?” He smiles. “I am rather fond of you, Gregory Allain Francois Lestrade. Against my better judgment, it seems that I want to keep you.”

“There’s no need to be insulting, Mycroft,” I snap. “Especially not while you’re holding my cock.”

He frowns and to my dismay, lets my cock go. (To my credit, it’s still standing firm and proud) “I make you bristle, yet you still want to take care of me? I don’t understand.”

“I want to take care of you because you make me bristle,” I say, sitting up. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what it is. I fancy you, want to make love to you all night long, want to fuss at you, fuss over you, debate with you, and be exasperated with you. To be all right with not seeing you every day, and you feeling the same. To be there for you when it gets to be too much. I know you won’t reach out, and you’ll do that thing you Holmeses do to push people away, but I still want it, want you. And no, I’m not just saying it because of ‘the spirit of the day’, all right? You’d know anyway, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.” With a growl, he rolls over to straddle me. He stares down at me, blue eyes boring into mine as he reads me thoroughly. “Damn it, Gregory… it wasn’t supposed to go this way. I don’t like surprises.”

“Mycroft…” I put my hands on his waist and pull him forward. “Kiss me. Show me.”

“This is utterly ridiculous,” he says, bending down to fit his lips to mine. “Ludicrous.”

“I know.” We kiss then, and every good intention I have flies out of the window. The pleasure is too sharp, too much, and it makes me squirm beneath him, which fits my cock right under his cotton-clad arse. “Jesus,” I groan, wrenching my lips away. “That’s it…”

He drops his head to fit it in the spot between my shoulder and neck, and begins to move back and forth. God help me, each movement, each thrust of his hips is bringing me closer to orgasm, and oh, god… I don’t want to come. “Mycroft… please.”

“Mmph.”

“We have to stop,” I beg, but he doesn’t let up. Shit. I want nothing more than to see this all the way to the end, to have him come with my name on his lips, but now isn’t the time. Damning my own morality, I lock my legs around his hips, flip us over, and stare down at him. His eyes have gone dark and stormy, and it’s all I can do not to keep going. “Stop moving.”

“I want it,” he says with a moan. “All of it.”

“No, love,” I say gently, my hands slowing his hips with a firm grip. “Think of the poor people of… wherever. You can’t afford to be muddled, remember?”

“Oh, bugger.” His hands grip me, and he pulls me forward, then back, and forward again. The friction is delicious. “Your arse is…” He murmurs something in what I think might be French… maybe it’s German… I don’t know, but whatever it is, I could hear him speak it all night.

“Jesus, Mikey, you are amazing.” I bend and kiss him again, then move down, nuzzling his throat, tasting his skin. I want to drown myself in him. “We should stop.”

“I would so like to see you in orgasm, Gregory… Are you certain you wish to stop?” he asks, still rubbing and kneading my arse.

“At this point, I am not certain of anything above my waist,” I laugh. “But I can’t have you perched on top of my hard cock and not want to fuck, Mycroft. So, we’re stopping.”

“Ah, well… I admire your control.” With a pat to my arse, he slides off me, and stands at the side of the bed. “Is your leg still hurting? I can run a bath for you…”

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and breathe in and out for a few moments. “Hard as a rock, and you’re on about baths. I need a cold shower.”

He looks between my legs and blushes. “If I may say, it is a lovely cock, Gregory. I suspect that the slight curvature would provide immense pleasure.”

“An ice bath,” I say as my cock jerks in response to his words. “Stop talking and hand me that bag, will you?”

With a frown, he spies the red gift bag, and hands it to me. “What’s this?”

“It’s me, taking the bull by the horns.” I take out the box of biscuits and hold them out to him. “Will you marry me and tell me your middle names?”

He looks at the fancy box, wrapped in a red ribbon, then at me. . “Oh, Gregory…” And to my surprise, he lets out a howl of genuine laughter.

“Mycroft…?” I prompt, eyebrows raised. “You said you’d tell me.”

He stops laughing and clears his throat. “Mummy is…a bit… I suppose quirky is as good a descriptor as any. And she… yes, well, she thought I should be named Euclid, but thankfully, both my father and grandfather stopped her. My grandfather thought a fitting tribute to his deceased brother would be to name me Mycroft, and so it was. My first middle name is due to Mummy’s fascination with mathematicians. And my second middle name is my father’s first name. I was only to have the one middle name, but Mummy felt that having two would make me more distinguished.”

“So… Mycroft Arithmetic Edmund Holmes?” I ponder this for a moment, then shrug. “Strange, but it has a nice ring to it, I suppose. I’ve heard worse.”

He shakes his head and draws himself up with as much dignity as a man standing in only his pants can have. “It’s Mycroft Archimedes Edmund Holmes, thank you very much. Archimedes was well known for his natural curiosity and penchant for problem solving. Rather apt, if one must blow one’s own horn.”

“Didn’t he die because he was engrossed in a maths problem and didn’t know a war was on?”

“That is the rumour.” He glares at me. “And if you tell anyone my names, I will send you to Death Valley in summer.”

***

“Archimedes?” John repeats, frowning. “No wonder it’s a secret.”

“I hope you like the heat, because we’re both going to exiled.” Greg laughs. “It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? I mean, if anyone could pull it off, it’s Mycroft.”

“It’s pompous and odd, just like him, so I suppose it does work.” John empties his tea cup, and looks at Greg, brows raised. “So, he said yes to your weak proposal? It seems so rushed. You didn’t even have a ring… just biscuits.”

“Expensive biscuits, John, which you’d know if you had any class.”

“I have class, mate. I know you don’t propose with biscuits.”

“Sometimes you do. Look, I’d known him for seven years at that point, so he was hardly a stranger. I fell in love with him when he sent over the Chelsea Buns. I mean, it was such a romantic thing to do, sending over my favourite childhood food. And the clothes that fit like a glove… I could hardly let him get away… Plus, a virgin, John! Never had one.”

“Greg, please…” John scrubs at his eyes. “I don’t need to know all this.”

“It’s an important detail. Number four on my list of reasons why marrying him was a fantastic idea.”

“It never occurred to you to just date him, or move into his lair, or whatever? You could have used your oh, so wonderfully formed arse to your advantage, and seduced him right into your worn out bed.”

“He’s old-fashioned, John. I knew that asking him to marry me over saying ‘I want to shag you on a regular basis’ would go a long way toward impressing him.”

That’s just…” John shakes his head. “Mental.”

“Exactly. We’re made for each other. But he didn’t say yes for three weeks.”

“Why not?”

“That is a story for another time,” Mycroft says firmly, coming in the room with a polite smile directed at John. “You are free to go, Doctor Watson. Sherlock has been relegated to the foyer, and is waiting for you.”

“Relegated to the foyer…? What did he – oh, never mind.” John puts on his coat and gloves. “Hang on a second. You can’t just drop a bombshell like that and expect me to let it pass. Why did it take so long for you to say yes, Mycroft? And what about the guy who threatened me?”

“The threat has been neutralised. Not a terrorist, Moriarty-related, or having to do with Sherlock. Just an obsessed fan.” Mycroft says the last word with a frown of distaste. “Sherlock can debrief you on the way back to Baker Street. Gregory and I have a plane to catch.”

“But…”

“A plane to catch,” Mycroft repeats. “I do not expect to see any part of the story you’ve been told to appear on your blog. I am willing to overlook the fact that my dear husband has revealed my middle names, and do hope you will refrain from making it public knowledge, John.”

“Yeah, Greg warned me. I wouldn’t, even if it was all right, because I can barely look at you as it is.”

“I am only human, after all.” Mycroft studies his nails for a moment. “For all intents and purposes, that is.”

“Well, mostly human,” Greg chimes in. “John, when we get back, we’ll meet up for a pint, and I’ll tell you about the honeymoon. Nearly got kicked out of Canada. They thought I was smuggling a werewolf, with all the howling from our suite.”

John blushes and holds up a hand. “No. No more of this. I know too much as it is. Thank you for your hospitality, Greg, and thank you, Mycroft, for… Christ, I can’t unsee what I now know about you. Good night!” He hurries out of the room.

“You are incorrigible, my dear Gregory,” Mycroft says, gathering Greg into a tight embrace. “And I am so terribly fond of you.”

“I know.” Greg backs him against the worktop, and kisses him thoroughly. “Private plane?”

Mycroft licks his lips, and looks at Greg hungrily. “Only the best for… oh, no… Gregory, I am not indulging that particular fantasy. It’s a violation of the –”

“A hand job under a blanket. A quick one.” Greg lifts his eyebrows. “I am married to the most powerful man in the United Kingdom, and I’m not a member of the mile-high club? A travesty, if there ever was one.”

“I occupy a minor position in the British government, as has been said no less than fifty times before.”

“It’s still a lie, no matter how many times you say it,” Greg replies, kissing him again. “Indulge me, Mycroft, and when we get to the cabin, I’ll shuck my trousers and do that thing you’ve become so fond of…”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “With the chocolate?”

“Only the best for you, Mikey…”

 

The end.