Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On a gray, drizzly morning in Covent Garden, Greg and his aunt Cat stood silently before Arthur Lestrade's grave, their eyes fixed on the casket as it was slowly lowered into the earth. The muted murmur of the gathered crowd faded into the background as the weight of loss and memory pressed in around them.

For many, Arthur was the heartbeat of Covent Garden. His establishment, Novel Grounds, nestled among cobbled lanes and vintage shops, was a haven where locals and travellers alike lost themselves in the rustle of pages and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and tea. But for one young man, Arthur was so much more.

Greg, his nephew who had become like a son, recalled a childhood painted with simple, enduring moments. After his mother's untimely passing when he was just 12, Arthur had taken him in without hesitation. In the warm, bustling embrace of Novel Grounds, Greg learned to shelve books, brew tea, use the espresso machine and completed his homework at one of the little tables as Arthur carefully managed the shop behind the counter.

Even during his years at university, while he pursued a degree in criminal justice, Greg had returned to Novel Grounds to switch off from the rigors of academia and simply be in a place where every corner held a memory of Arthur's kindness.

In the quiet pauses of the ceremony, memories danced before his eyes: the sound of Arthur's hearty laugh as he rearranged a stack of novels, the clink of coffee cups in the busy café, and the countless evenings when the soft glow of the shop's lights beckoned him to return, year after year, seeking comfort in the pages of a well-loved book. These were the moments that had shaped him, instilling in him the importance of community, care, and the enduring power of a shared story.

Greg stepped forward to place a single, well-worn book atop Arthur's casket. A humble tribute to the legacy that had nurtured him from boyhood into manhood. In that quiet, poignant act, he vowed that Arthur's spirit would continue to breathe life into Novel Grounds. Every shelf he tended, every cup of coffee he poured, would be a testament to a man who had once turned a struggling bookshop into a beacon of warmth in the heart of Covent Garden.

Cat's arm was warm and reassuring around his shoulder as she leaned close. "Greg, look at him now… resting peacefully. Your Uncle Arthur always had a way of making everything feel right, didn't he?"

Greg's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he nodded. "I remember how he'd laugh when we shelved books together, and how he made the shop feel like home. It hurts to think he's gone." He paused, his voice trembling slightly. "Every time I open those doors at… I'll carry a piece of him with me."

Cat reached out, gently stroking his cheek. "He believed in you, Greg. He trusted you to keep his dream alive. And I know, even now, he'd be so proud of you."

The sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the soft drip of rain punctuated their quiet exchange. Greg drew in a steadying breath, his resolve hardening despite the sorrow. "I promise, Aunt Cat, that I'll honour his memory."

Cat smiled through her tears. "That's right, my boy. Arthur's spirit lives on in every story told and every cup of coffee served here. I'll come by later this week, and we can sort through his things together. For now, just know he's always with you."

Greg gently lifted the framed picture from its place beside the casket, running his fingers over the glass. "I'm going to hang this in the shop," he said quietly, his voice thick with determination. "Right above the counter, where everyone can see him."

Cat nodded, her eyes glistening with a mix of pride and sorrow. "That's a wonderful idea, Greg. Every customer who comes in will see his face and know the love that built this place."

As they stepped away from the gathering, Greg cradled the picture close to his heart. With each step toward Novel Grounds, memories of long afternoons spent shelving books and quiet moments of shared laughter filled his mind. He could already picture the framed portrait glowing in the soft light of the café - a beacon of comfort and legacy that would welcome every visitor.

Outside, the gentle buzz of Covent Garden infused the air with promise. Greg took a deep breath, feeling the weight of loss blend with a newfound resolve. He knew that by preserving Arthur's memory in this tangible way, he wasn't just keeping a relic of the past alive - he was ensuring that Novel Grounds continued to be a haven for the community, a place where love and stories intertwined.

Greg climbed the narrow stairs to the flat above Novel Grounds. A home he had shared with his uncle for the last 13 years. In the quiet of that familiar space, surrounded by memories and unboxed treasures of his uncle's life, he acknowledged the lingering tasks left undone. Despite the emotional weight of the day, he knew that eventually he'd have to sort through Arthur's belongings.

Shaking off the formal remnants of the funeral, Greg removed the suit he'd worn earlier and slipped into his usual jeans and t-shirt. A small, personal rebellion against the day's heaviness. With a determined sigh, he gathered a nail and a hammer, then made his way down to the closed shop.

In the hushed emptiness of Novel Grounds, he took a deep breath and began hammering the nail into the wall above the counter. Soon, the framed picture of Arthur was securely hung, its gentle smile ready to welcome every visitor and serve as a lasting tribute to the man who had given so much to his life and community.

Standing back to admire his work, Greg felt both sorrow and resolve mingling within him. Today, he had taken the first step toward preserving Arthur's spirit. A spirit that would continue to live on through the shop, the memories, and the stories that filled Novel Grounds every day.

Greg picked up his guitar that he'd left by the counter and settled down at one of the worn wooden tables. As his fingers brushed the strings, the soft strains of Arthur's favourite song filled the quiet space of Novel Grounds. Each note carried memories of long afternoons spent side-by-side. Shelving books, sharing quiet laughter, and finding solace in the simple joy of music.

Closing his eyes, Greg let the melody transport him back to a time when Arthur's gentle guidance made every day a small celebration of life. The song, filled with tender chords and bittersweet harmonies, was more than just music - it was a tribute to the man who had given him a home, a family, and a lifelong love for stories.

The shop had stayed closed for a couple more days as Greg took the time to grieve and get things in order. Now, as the first light of dawn filtered through the dusty windows, he found himself alone with a mountain of bills, overdue deliveries, and a stack of paperwork that once seemed insignificant in the warmth of Arthur's presence.

Sitting at the worn wooden desk behind the counter, Greg sighed and whispered to the empty room, "Uncle Arthur, I hope you're watching over me. I've got a lot to do, but I promise, I won't let you down."

He opened a crinkled envelope and pulled out the latest bills. "Deliveries, utilities, supplies…" he muttered, running a calloused finger down the list. The responsibility of being the owner now weighed on him, but in each challenge, he found a spark of determination.

From the back office, the sound of a delivery truck rumbled past, a stark reminder that life was still moving outside the quiet solitude of the closed shop. Greg picked up the phone and dialled the supplier. "Hello, this is Greg Lestrade, owner of Novel Grounds. I need to reschedule today's delivery," he said, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach.

A brief pause crackled over the line before a friendly voice replied, "Of course, Mr. Lestrade. We can bring it in tomorrow morning. I'm sorry for your loss."

Greg managed a small smile. "Thank you... I appreciate it."

As he hung up, he turned back to the bills and the quiet hum of his guitar resting in the corner - a silent promise of the many evenings spent playing for an audience of one. "I've got work to do," he murmured, standing and stretching out the stiffness from long hours of sitting.

Glancing around the shop, memories of Arthur's laughter and warm presence filled every corner: the neatly arranged shelves, the faded posters of classic novels on the walls, and even the worn cushion on his favourite chair behind the counter. Each item was a relic of the past, a thread in the tapestry of a life well-lived.

With resolve building in his chest, Greg began sorting through the paperwork, organizing bills into piles and jotting down reminders for upcoming tasks. The shop might have been shrouded in silence now, but he knew that soon, Novel Grounds would reopen its doors, welcoming curious readers and regulars alike.

Yet as he meticulously reviewed every invoice and bank statement, a cold realization crept over him. He paused, brow furrowing as he added up the totals. "This isn't just a minor setback," he muttered under his breath.

The numbers painted a daunting picture. A mountain of overdue bills, escalating loans, and financial missteps that had quietly piled up over the years. Arthur had always managed to keep things afloat with sheer passion, but now the debt was far deeper than Greg had ever imagined.

His heart pounded with a mix of fear and determination as he scribbled down notes. "I have to fix this, for Arthur, for all of us," he vowed quietly. Each digit on the statement was a reminder of the legacy he was sworn to protect. With a deep, steadying breath, Greg steeled himself for the daunting challenge ahead, determined to rebuild Novel.

Outside, the gentle buzz of Covent Garden promised a return to normalcy - a normalcy that he would rebuild, one carefully managed bill and every neatly shelved book at a time.

A week later inside Novel Grounds, the reopening was well underway. In the early morning light, Cat arrived with a bounty of freshly baked goods, the aroma of warm muffins, cakes, and flaky croissants mingling with the familiar scent of old books and fresh coffee.

Greg was busy sweeping the floor, the sound of his broom rhythmic against the wooden planks, when Cat set down a box of treats at the counter. "Good morning, Greg," she said with a bright smile. "I thought these might bring a little extra warmth to the day."

Greg paused, looking up with a tired but grateful smile. "Good morning, Auntie. You know, your baked goods are the best in the world. Arthur would have loved this spread." He brushed a strand of dark brown hair from his eyes and continued sweeping.

Cat nodded, her eyes softening. "I remember how he'd always ask for an extra croissant with his coffee. He said it made the day seem a little sweeter." She reached out and patted Greg's shoulder. "Now, it's up to you to keep that sweetness alive, boy."

Greg hesitated, the weight of recent discoveries tugging at him. "Cat," he began quietly, "I've been looking through all the bills and bank statements these past few days and I noticed something... the shop isn't really making a profit." He ran his fingers along the counter, uncertainty clear in his voice. "Did you know much about the debt we're in? I never really paid attention before, but now I'm worried."

Cat's smile faltered for a moment, her gaze drifting to the neatly arranged shelves that Arthur had so lovingly curated. "Oh, Greg," she sighed gently, "your uncle always kept a few things to himself. I knew the shop had its challenges, but I hoped you wouldn't have to face it alone."

Greg leaned in, earnest. "I need to know, Aunt Cat. Arthur did everything with such care, but these numbers... they don't add up. How deep are we in, really?"

Her eyes glistened as she placed a reassuring hand over his. "I've been meaning to tell you, but it was always wrapped in more hope than the cold truth. The shop has been struggling to turn a profit for years now. Your uncle did what he could, but sometimes passion alone isn't enough to keep the books balanced."

Greg exhaled slowly, processing her words. "So, we're in deep?" he asked, his voice laced with both concern and resolve.

"Yes," Cat admitted softly. "But it's not insurmountable, Greg. Arthur believed in this place with all his heart, and I believe you can turn it around. We'll work through it together. One step, one bill, one book at a time."

Greg managed a small, determined smile, nodding slowly. "Alright…. I promise, I'll do everything I can to keep his dream alive and set things right."

"I know you will Greg" she said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

"Let's set these out," Greg said, setting his broom aside and joining Cat by the display counter. Together, they arranged the muffins, cakes, and croissants with care, each pastry a symbol of comfort and a promise of new beginnings.

Cat smiled as she placed the last flaky croissant on the counter. "It looks just as Arthur used to like it," she said softly.

Greg nodded as he glanced over his work, then made his way behind the counter to brew a fresh pot of coffee and a comforting kettle of tea. Outside, he had already set up the tables and replaced the 'closed' sign with a welcoming 'we're open' notice that shone in the early morning light.

As the rich aroma of coffee began to fill the shop, a few familiar faces started to drift in. Mrs. Delaney, a longtime regular, was the first to step inside. "Good morning, Gregory," she greeted warmly. "It feels like coming home."

"Good morning, Mrs. Delaney," Greg replied with a gentle smile as he poured her a steaming cup. "It truly does. Arthur always believed this place was our home, a home for everyone who needed it."

A young man, clutching a worn paperback, approached hesitantly. "Is this still the best spot in Covent Garden for a quiet read and a great cuppa?" he asked.

Greg's eyes twinkled. "Absolutely. Arthur made sure of that, and we're keeping his promise alive here." His voice, though steady, carried the weight of a legacy he was determined to honour.

Cat chimed in as she arranged a small vase of fresh flowers on the counter. "A good day always begins with a warm cuppa and a sweet treat. And here at Novel Grounds, every detail is a tribute to Arthur's spirit."

As more customers arrived, the shop filled with a gentle murmur of conversation and the soft clinking of cups and saucers. Greg looked around, feeling a mix of bittersweet memories and hopeful resolve. Every carefully shelved book and every freshly brewed cup was a testament to the man who had given his heart to this place.

Standing side by side with his aunt, Greg knew that even in the face of challenges - like the mounting bills and the debt he'd recently discovered - today was about celebration. It was about remembering Arthur, embracing the community, and forging ahead with the warmth and legacy that had made Novel Grounds so special.

"Welcome back, everyone," Greg called out with a friendly, confident tone. And with that, Novel Grounds opened its doors, ready to welcome the world once more into the comforting embrace of stories, coffee, and the enduring love of a remarkable man.

The day is passing in a blur. As the sun begins to dip, he finds himself thinking about how much things have shifted. Just a few months ago, he imagined a life of criminal investigations - becoming PC and maybe eventually a DI, but now, here he is, managing a cozy shop.

It's strange yet fulfilling. The shop has become his world, and as he clears his work area, he can't help but smile. This is exactly where he was meant to be.

A few days later, Greg and Cat found themselves in Arthur's old bedroom, surrounded by boxes of his belongings, worn-out jackets, and mementos of a life that had so deeply shaped them both. The soft light filtering through the window gave the space a nostalgic glow, and despite the sadness, there was an undercurrent of fulfilment in their task.

Greg ran his hand over a neatly folded sweater and sighed. "I never imagined I'd be sorting through his clothes. Feels like every piece tells a story, doesn't it?"

Cat smiled gently, picking up a well-worn scarf. "Oh, absolutely. Remember how he used to say that this scarf was his lucky charm on days when the shop was almost empty?" She chuckled softly. "I think it's time we let some of these memories find new homes."

Greg paused as he held up a pair of trousers. "But some of these, I want to keep. Not because I'm attached to fabric, but because they're a reminder of him… of how he cared for us." He looked over at Cat, his eyes serious. "I mean, look at this… I've been living above the shop with him for 13 years. Every little item is part of our history."

Cat nodded and set the scarf aside. "I know, Greg. And when we donate these clothes, it's not like we're throwing away Arthur. We're giving someone else a chance to feel the warmth he brought to our lives." She patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Besides, we don't have to do it all at once."

Greg managed a small smile as he carefully laid out a pile of neatly folded shirts on the bed. "You're right. It's strange yet fulfilling. The shop has become my world, and every time I clear a little space here, I feel like I'm making room for new beginnings. I just... I can't help but smile when I think of all the afternoons we spent here with Arthur, sorting books and laughing."

Cat leaned against the edge of the dresser, watching him with warm eyes. "He would be so proud of you, Greg. Not just for keeping the shop open, but for cherishing his memory in every little way. Look at you, still so dedicated despite everything."

Greg laughed softly, a hint of bittersweet irony in his voice. "I never planned on running a shop. I always wanted to be a criminal detective, solving cases and chasing leads. But here I am, managing bills, dealing with deliveries, and sorting through Uncle Arthur's old clothes. And honestly? I couldn't be happier."

Cat reached out and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Sometimes life takes unexpected turns, my boy. You've inherited more than a business. And I know deep down, you'll honour that legacy in your own unique way."

Greg paused to consider a faded jacket with a small leather patch. "This one... I might actually keep it. It reminds me of the mornings Arthur would open the shop with a smile, even on the rainiest days." He looked at Cat. "What do you think? Should I hang onto this, or is it time to let it go?"

Cat picked up the jacket and examined it thoughtfully. "I think you should keep it, Greg. Not every piece of the past needs to be tossed out. Some things, like this jacket, are a piece of you now. And sometimes, keeping them close is what gives you strength to move forward."

Greg nodded slowly, a determined glimmer in his eyes.

They continued sorting through the items, each piece sparking memories and prompting lively exchanges.

"Remember this old hat?" Cat asked, holding up a battered cap with a faded logo. " Arthur used to say it was his 'thinking cap' when he was trying to decide which book to recommend to a customer."

Greg chuckled. "I can almost hear his voice saying, 'This hat never lets me down, even on my worst days.' It's funny how these little things carry so much meaning."

As the afternoon wore on, the task, though emotionally taxing, brought them closer together. Amid the stacks of clothes and memories, Greg and Cat shared laughter, tears, and quiet moments of reflection.

"Thank you, Cat," Greg said softly, placing a particularly cherished sweater into a keepsake box. "Sorting through all this... it reminds me that Arthur is still here with us."

Cat smiled, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Greg, dear," she began softly, "are you seeing anyone these days? I worry about you now that Arthur's gone, you mustn't be all alone."

Greg paused. He let out a sigh. "Honestly, Aunt Cat, I've been so caught up with the shop and all these bills. I haven't really had time to think about... anyone," he admitted, his voice a mix of uncertainty and exhaustion.

Cat shook her head gently, her eyes full of warmth. "Greg, you're still so young. You're not a man who should be left to fend for yourself. You've always had that spark. Your humour, your kindness. You deserve someone to share that with, to remind you that you're loved, especially now."

He looked at her, a hint of a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I know, but it's hard to find time, and sometimes I wonder if I'm just too wrapped up in everything here. You know, running the shop, sorting through Arthur's things…"

Cat reached for a stack of neatly folded shirts and held one up. "Listen to me, Greg. Arthur built this place with love, and he'd want you to live your life too. Being alone isn't the answer nor is it what you deserve. Are you sure you're not just... lonely?"

Greg's eyes softened as he set the shirt aside. "I… I suppose there are moments when it gets a bit quiet, a bit too quiet," he admitted quietly.

Cat gave a gentle laugh, shaking her head. "Always, my boy. Always there to be someone's bright light. And if you're not seeing anyone right now, well, that just means there's room for someone truly special to come along. You never know when love will find you, even when you're busy running Novel Grounds."

Greg looked down, fiddling with a loose thread on a sweater. "I'd like to think I'm managing, but sometimes it feels like I'm just surviving day by day. And with Arthur gone, the loneliness can be overwhelming."

She stepped closer, her tone reassuring. "Greg, you have a whole community here that cares about you. And remember, you always have me. But I also worry about you finding someone who makes you smile the way Arthur's memory did. You deserve happiness, dear."

He sighed, meeting her gaze. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't be so closed off. It's just… sometimes I think I'm too set in my ways."

Cat's smile was gentle but insistent. "Greg, life changes. You're 25, and running this shop, handling all the bills. Iit's a lot, I know. But you're not meant to go through it alone. Love has a way of finding us when we least expect it."

Greg chuckled softly, the sound mingling with the rustle of old fabric and the quiet clink of memories being sorted. "Alright, Auntie. I'll try to keep my heart open a little more."

They continued through the afternoon, sorting through Arthur's belongings with a blend of laughter, shared memories, and gentle teasing. Amid the mementos of a life that had given him so much, Greg felt a stirring of hope. That even in the absence of his beloved uncle, new beginnings were waiting just around the corner.

Summer had faded, and autumn was knocking on Novel Grounds' door. The soft glow of golden leaves and the crisp chill in the air signalled a new season of change and promise.

In the months since summer Greg had found his rhythm managing the shop, balancing bills, scheduling deliveries, and even brainstorming fresh business ideas to pull them out of the mounting debt. In the quiet moments between tasks, he scribbled notes in a little notebook, his mind buzzing with ideas for seasonal events, special menus, and live music nights.

One late afternoon, as the workday wound down, Greg and Cat were behind the counter, tidying up and brainstorming. Greg leaned over the register, scribbling ideas into a battered notebook.

"Cat, what do you think about a themed autumn night?" he asked, tapping a pencil against the counter. "Maybe something like a 'Harvest & Happenings' event. We could serve pumpkin spice lattes, apple cinnamon muffins, even have local poets read their work."

Cat, arranging a tray of freshly baked treats, grinned. "I love that idea, Greg. And we could do a little 'story slam'. Invite people to share their own tales, maybe even some open mic music. You always get great tips when you play your guitar in the evenings."

Greg's eyes lit up as he glanced toward the small stage area by the counter. "Exactly. When I strum those chords, it feels like I'm keeping Uncle Arthur's spirit alive. Plus, the tips help us chip away at these debts. We need every little bit, right?"

Cat nodded, setting down a plate of warm croissants. "Absolutely. Arthur always believed that every cup of coffee and every song had a story behind it. We can use that to our advantage. What if we also start a loyalty program? Maybe a 'Frequent Reader' card that gives customers a free pastry after a certain number of visits?"

Greg chuckled. "That's brilliant. And we could have a wall where people pin their favourite quotes from the books. It'll make the shop feel even more personal like a community diary of sorts."

They paused, smiling at the possibilities that buzzed through their conversation. Outside, the muted sounds of Covent Garden blended with the rustle of leaves, reminding them that life was moving forward.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Cat worked the register and restocked pastries, while Greg picked up his guitar and began to play. The notes floated through the air, a mix of tender chords and bittersweet harmonies that resonated with everyone who paused to listen.

A regular customer, an elderly man with a gentle smile, approached and left a generous tip. "That's a fine tune, young man. Reminds me of simpler times," he said.

Greg smiled, "Thanks, sir. It's a song Arthur loved. I'm just trying to keep his spirit around."

As the evening deepened into a comfortable night, the soft notes of Greg's guitar mingled with the steady hum of conversation and the distant sound of autumn rain. Lost in the gentle cadence of his music, Greg had no inkling that tomorrow would bring an unexpected visitor. A stranger whose first step into Novel Grounds would turn his carefully balanced world upside down.

Chapter Text

The next day, the golden light of an autumn afternoon spilled through the large windows of Novel Grounds, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air. The comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the familiar mustiness of old books.

It was a slow hour, the kind of quiet stretch Greg had come to appreciate - time to catch up on restocking and organizing the returns from the day before.

He moved through the shelves, running his fingers along the spines, reshelving novels in their rightful places. He paused every so often, thumbing through a well-worn copy of a classic, smiling to himself as he recognized notes scribbled in the margins from familiar regulars. The shop had a history in its pages, a story woven by everyone who had ever passed through its doors.

Behind the counter, Cat hummed to herself as she rearranged the remaining pastries. "Greg, dear. I'll be heading out now. Don't forget to check the new inventory that came in yesterday. A few special orders are in that box by the register."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it," Greg called over his shoulder as he placed a copy of Pride and Prejudice back into its spot. "Just trying to put these back first before they pile up."

Cat rolled her eyes with a smirk as she grabbed her coat. "You and your shelving obsession. I swear, if you put half as much effort into your love life as you do into alphabetizing those books, you'd have a queue of admirers at the door."

Greg let out a dry chuckle. "Very funny, Auntie. I'm a little busy keeping this place running, in case you haven't noticed."

Cat shook her head with a knowing smile but didn't push further, "I'll see you tomorrow morning" she said and left through the back door.

The small bell above the shop's door chimed suddenly, breaking the quiet hum of the shop. Greg, still holding a book in his hand, instinctively turned toward the entrance, ready to greet whoever had walked in.

He expected to see a regular, a local resident stopping by for their afternoon tea or an old-timer looking to chat about the weather. Instead, a tall, sharply dressed man stood in the doorway, pausing as if taking in the space for the first time.

Greg didn't recognize him.

The man exuded an air of quiet authority, his posture poised and deliberate. He wore a crisp navy-blue coat, the collar turned up slightly against the autumn chill, and a neatly pressed suit underneath. His sharp, calculating gaze swept across the shop, lingering briefly on the overflowing shelves before settling on Greg.

Greg took in the stranger's appearance, noting details with an almost instinctual curiosity. Auburn hair, neatly combed but with a few rebellious strands that caught the light, softened his otherwise severe presence. Freckles dusted his sharp cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, an oddly endearing contrast to the stiff professionalism of his tailored suit.

They looked to be around the same age - early twenties, maybe - but something about the way this man carried himself made him seem older, more mature. Where Greg was casual in his jeans and slightly rumpled t-shirt, this stranger looked as if he belonged in some grand office in the city, overseeing something important, something secret.

Greg had always been good at reading people, a skill he had honed during his criminal justice studies, but this man was a puzzle. There was an intensity to him, a watchfulness that suggested he didn't enter places like Novel Grounds on a whim.

Curiosity sparked in Greg's chest. Whoever this man was, he wasn't here for just a book and a cup of coffee. There was something about the man that made the air feel suddenly heavier, as if an unspoken tension had entered the shop along with him.

"Welcome to Novel Grounds," Greg said, his voice breaking the silence. "Let me know if I can help you find anything."

The man stepped further inside, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the shop. "I certainly hope so," he said, his voice smooth and even. "I have a feeling this place may be more… interesting than I initially thought."

Greg arched an eyebrow at the man's cryptic remark but decided not to comment on it. Instead, he closed the book he'd been holding and made his way back behind the counter.

"Well, while you're figuring out if we meet your standards," Greg said, leaning casually against the counter, "can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, maybe something to eat?"

The man's sharp gaze flickered to the menu propped up on the counter. He scanned it quickly, as if reading an intelligence report rather than a list of drinks and pastries.

"A cup of tea," he said finally, his tone decisive. "Earl Grey, loose leaf, not a bag. Brew it for exactly four minutes, no more, no less. Serve it in a porcelain cup, not a mug, and add a slice of lemon on the side, not in the tea. No sugar and a splash of milk."

Greg stared at him for a beat before letting out a short laugh. "Right, well, aren't you particular," he mused, already moving to prepare the tea.

The man didn't react to Greg's teasing, merely watching with cool patience as he set about boiling the water and measuring out the tea leaves.

Greg glanced at him as he worked, unable to stop himself from asking, "So, do you give precise instructions like that for everything, or is it just tea that gets this kind of treatment?"

The corners of the man's mouth twitched, just slightly. "I find that precision ensures a better result," he replied. "It eliminates unnecessary disappointments."

Greg snorted. "Well, that's one way to live, I suppose."

As the tea steeped, he studied the man more closely. Everything about him - from the pristine suit to the way he held himself - suggested someone who didn't frequent cozy bookshop cafés like Novel Grounds. And yet, here he was.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Greg said, setting the tea timer, "but you don't exactly look like someone who stumbles into little places like this on a whim. What brings you in?"

For the first time, the man hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second, but Greg caught it.

Then, with the faintest of smirks, he replied, "Curiosity."

Greg wasn't sure he believed him. Whoever this man was, he wasn't just here for a cup of tea.

As the timer beeped, Greg carefully strained the tea into a porcelain cup, setting it on a small saucer before sliding it across the counter. He placed a thin slice of lemon beside it, just as requested.

The man eyed the cup briefly before speaking again. "I'll also take the last piece of apple crumble cake," he said smoothly, as though it were a foregone conclusion.

Greg smirked. "You don't even need to know what it tastes like first?"

The man simply tilted his head slightly. "I have excellent judgment."

"Right," Greg muttered, grabbing a plate and carefully transferring the final slice of apple crumble cake onto it. He dusted it lightly with powdered sugar before setting it next to the tea. "That'll be £6.50, then."

The man reached into his coat pocket and produced a crisp ten-pound note, setting it on the counter with deliberate precision. "Keep the change," he said, before casting a quick glance around the café. "Do you have a seat with a plug nearby?"

Greg, wiping his hands on a towel, smirked. "You planning to set up camp?"

The man didn't react to the teasing, but Greg noticed the slight quirk of his brow - almost as if he found Greg's casualness mildly amusing.

Greg picked up the note and slipped it into the till before glancing back at him. "Thanks for the generous tip, by the way. Much appreciated."

The man inclined his head slightly. "Consider it an appreciation for competence."

Greg let out a chuckle. "High praise coming from you, I'm sure."

The man merely gave another quick glance around the café. "The seat?"

Greg huffed a small laugh and gestured toward a corner table near the window, tucked beside a tall bookshelf filled with classic novels. "That one's got an outlet just under the ledge. Best seat in the house if you want to work."

The man gave a single nod of approval, as if Greg had passed some sort of test. "That will do."

Greg watched as he carried his tea and cake to the table, setting them down with the same meticulous care he seemed to apply to everything. He then reached into his sleek leather briefcase, pulled out a thin laptop, and opened it with smooth efficiency.

Greg leaned against the counter, observing him for a moment longer before shaking his head. He wasn't going to pry. Yet.

Pushing himself off the counter, Greg grabbed a clipboard from beneath it and looked back at the man, who was already absorbed in whatever was on his laptop screen. "If you need anything, just ring the bell on the counter," Greg said, nodding toward the small silver service bell next to the till. "I'll be in the back doing inventory."

The man didn't look up but gave a slight nod, acknowledging the offer without breaking his focus. Greg found it oddly amusing. It wasn't often he met someone so deliberately detached from casual conversation.

With one last glance, Greg turned and disappeared into the storage room, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something about this guy was different. And whether it was good different or bad different, well… that was yet to be seen.

Greg crouched near a stack of delivery boxes, flipping through the inventory sheet as he checked off the latest book arrivals. Normally, this was a task he could do on autopilot. Sorting, counting, and making sure everything matched up. But today, his mind kept drifting back to the mystery man sitting by the window.

Who was he?

Greg had met all sorts of people at Novel Grounds - locals, travellers, students looking for a quiet study space. But this man… he was different. There was a quiet authority in the way he carried himself, a kind of calculated presence that suggested he rarely entered places like this on a whim.

And yet, here he was.

Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he tried to refocus. Tea, cake, a seat with a plug nearby. That was all it was, right?

Still, his mind replayed every detail. The precise way the man had ordered his tea, the crispness of his suit, the faintest twitch of amusement when Greg had teased him. And then there were the freckles - an unexpected softness against his otherwise composed demeanour. It was strange, but Greg had the feeling this wasn't just some businessman stopping by to kill time.

He was here for something.

Greg exhaled, forcing himself to return to the stack of books in front of him. "Not my problem," he muttered under his breath, jotting down a few numbers on the inventory sheet.

But no matter how much he tried to focus, his thoughts kept drifting back to the man by the window.

And then, he heard it - not out loud, but in the back of his mind, as clear as if Arthur were standing right next to him. "Go on, lad. Talk to him. Everyone's got a story. You just have to listen."

Greg froze, his pen hovering over the inventory sheet. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a slow breath. Arthur had always been the one nudging him toward people, toward connection. Novel Grounds had never just been a shop to him - it was a place where stories intertwined, where lives crossed paths for a reason.

Greg smirked to himself. "Alright, alright, old man, I get it," he muttered under his breath.

He set the clipboard down and pushed himself to his feet. Maybe Arthur was right. Maybe instead of standing around, wondering why the hell this man was here, Greg should just go and ask again.

Stepping out of the back room, he scanned the shop. The man was still there, seated by the window, his posture impeccably straight as he stared at his laptop screen. His tea had barely been touched, the apple crumble cake slowly disappearing with precise, deliberate bites.

Greg grabbed a fresh cup of coffee, figuring it was as good an excuse as any, and made his way over.

"Figured I'd bring you something stronger," Greg said as he placed the coffee on the table. "Not that your tea isn't perfectly steeped or anything, but you strike me as someone who could use an extra boost."

The man finally looked up from his screen, his gaze meeting Greg's with mild curiosity. Up close, those sharp blue-gray eyes were even more striking.

"That was not necessary," the man said, though he didn't push the coffee away.

Greg shrugged. "Humour me. Call it hospitality." He pulled out the chair across from him and sat down without asking, resting his forearms on the table. "So, are you going to tell me why you're really here, or do I have to guess?"

For a second, something flickered across the man's face - something unreadable, guarded. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Mycroft," he said simply.

Greg blinked. "What?"

"Mycroft Holmes," the man clarified, his voice calm, measured. "That's my name."

Greg tilted his head slightly, chewing on the name for a moment. It suited him. Stiff, proper, and carrying a weight of something unsaid.

"Alright, Mycroft," Greg said, offering his hand across the table. "Greg Lestrade. Welcome to Novel Grounds."

Mycroft glanced at his hand for half a second before shaking it. Firm, precise, just like everything else about him.

"Pleasure," Mycroft said, though Greg wasn't entirely sure he meant it.

Greg leaned back slightly in his chair, studying him. "So, Mycroft Holmes. What brings you to Novel Grounds? Can't say I've seen you around before."

Mycroft's fingers tapped lightly against the side of his teacup before he finally responded, his tone measured. "I was in the area and happened upon your establishment. It seemed… quieter than the other options."

Greg arched an eyebrow. "That's it? You just happened upon it?"

Mycroft met his gaze with a hint of something Greg couldn't quite place. Amusement? Evasion?

"Yes," Mycroft said smoothly. "I don't often have the luxury of unplanned moments, but today, I made an exception."

Greg huffed a small laugh. "Unplanned, huh? You don't strike me as the type to do anything without a strategy in place."

Mycroft's lips quirked slightly, though he didn't outright confirm or deny Greg's observation. Instead, he reached for his tea and took a careful sip before speaking again.

"There are few places in London that offer true respite from the city's… chaos. Your café, from my brief assessment, appears to be one of them."

Greg tilted his head, intrigued. "So, what? You just needed a quiet place to sit with your spreadsheets?" He nodded toward Mycroft's laptop, where columns of text and numbers were visible before Mycroft subtly angled the screen away.

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. "Something like that."

Greg knew a deflection when he heard one. But rather than press, he let the moment settle between them, letting silence do the work. Mycroft didn't fidget under the scrutiny. He was clearly used to being studied, or perhaps, more used to people not daring to question him.

Finally, Greg shrugged. "Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you like. Just don't expect me to start steeping tea at precise four-minute intervals every time you walk in."

Mycroft gave him a pointed look. "Then I shall have to adjust my expectations accordingly."

Greg smirked, shaking his head as he stood. he could almost hear Arthur's voice again, that knowing chuckle, that spark of curiosity he always had about people.

"See? Everyone's got a story, lad. You just have to be patient enough to listen."

Greg finished up the inventory before putting away the special orders. The routine tasks kept his hands busy, but his mind kept drifting back to Mycroft Holmes.

And yet, for all his precision, Mycroft had been deliberately vague about why he was here.

Greg wasn't sure what it was about him - the odd mix of formality and quiet detachment, or the way his sharp gaze took in everything around him while giving nothing away. Either way, something told Greg that this wasn't the last time he'd see him.

For now, though, there were customers to tend to.

Greg cleared Mycroft's table once the man had finished his tea and cake. The plate and cup were positioned just so - placed deliberately rather than abandoned carelessly. Mycroft had left another generous tip, as precise as everything else about him. Greg smirked as he tucked it into the till.

"Appreciate the business," he murmured to himself.

A few more customers trickled in, and Greg slipped seamlessly into his rhythm. Pouring coffee, taking orders, and exchanging friendly conversation. By the time the evening lull settled in, the shop had taken on that familiar cozy hum. The sound of pages turning, quiet conversations, and the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain.

With the café in good hands, Greg made his way over to the small stage tucked into the corner of the shop. He picked up his guitar, settling onto the stool as he tuned the strings. Playing in the evenings had started as a way to earn extra tips, but over time, it had become something more.

A way to unwind. A way to connect.

The first few chords rang out softly, blending effortlessly with the warmth of the café. It was an old song. One Arthur used to hum absentmindedly while organizing shelves. Greg let the music flow, his fingers moving instinctively along the frets.

He cast a glance around the shop, watching as customers relaxed into the gentle atmosphere. And just beyond the window, outside on the cobbled street, Mycroft Holmes lingered for a moment, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, watching.

Greg didn't notice him - not yet.

But something about today had shifted, and whether he realized it or not, his life was already starting to change.

And it changed in a way that soon became routine.

Like clockwork, every weekday at exactly 4 PM, Mycroft Holmes would enter Novel Grounds. Never a minute earlier, never a minute later.

The bell above the door would chime, and there he'd be - immaculately dressed as always, his navy-blue coat buttoned against the autumn chill, his sharp eyes scanning the shop with that same calculating gaze. And just as predictably, he would stride to the counter, place his precise order, and take a sweet treat to accompany it.

"Earl Grey, loose leaf. Four minutes. Lemon on the side. No sugar and a splash of milk. And whatever pastry you have left that is least offensive."

Greg, at first, had been amused by the sheer consistency of it. "You know, you could just ask for your 'usual' like a normal person," he had teased after the third visit.

Mycroft had merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Normal is highly overrated."

Greg had snorted but hadn't disagreed.

And so, the ritual continued. Tea, pastry, generous tip, corner seat, laptop. Mycroft would work in complete silence, barely lifting his gaze except to occasionally observe the shop, as if taking stock of something unseen.

Greg never pried - at first.

But as days turned into weeks, and Mycroft's presence became a fixture at Novel Grounds, Greg found himself growing more curious.

He would watch as Mycroft typed furiously at his laptop, his eyes scanning lines of text and spreadsheets with unwavering focus. Whatever he was working on was clearly important, but it was impossible to tell exactly what.

One day, as Greg set Mycroft's tea down at his usual table, he finally gave in to his curiosity.

"So," Greg said casually, crossing his arms as he stood by the table. "Are you ever going to tell me what exactly you do, or am I just supposed to keep guessing?"

Mycroft looked up at him, expression impassive. "You could always try guessing."

Greg huffed. "Alright, fine. You're either an accountant, a government analyst, or some kind of secret agent."

For the first time, Mycroft actually smiled - just a hint, barely there, but enough to be noticeable.

"Interesting selection," he mused, stirring his tea precisely once before taking a sip. "And if I said you were correct, which one would you assume I am?"

Greg tilted his head. "Not an accountant, that's for sure. You don't have the dead-inside look of someone who stares at numbers all day without purpose."

Mycroft let out something that sounded dangerously close to a chuckle.

Greg's smirk widened. "So that leaves government analyst or secret agent. And between the two, I'd say you've got the energy of someone who knows a hell of a lot more than he lets on."

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, eyes watching Greg carefully over the rim of his cup. He didn't confirm, didn't deny just let the moment stretch between them.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "That was a non-answer."

"It was," Mycroft admitted, setting his cup down with practiced precision. "And yet, you seem to enjoy the mystery."

Greg snorted. "Not sure if 'enjoy' is the right word. More like 'mildly irritated but intrigued enough not to drop it'."

Mycroft smirked. "An excellent balance."

Greg shook his head, already knowing that this was going to become a game between them.

And for reasons he wasn't ready to admit, he didn't mind at all.

Greg returned behind the counter, shaking his head as he grabbed a cloth and absentmindedly wiped down the espresso machine. Mycroft Holmes was a strange man, but an oddly fascinating one. He was unlike any of the regulars - not just because of his perfectly timed arrivals or his painfully specific tea requests, but because he never truly blended in. Even sitting quietly in the corner, he carried himself like he was meant to be somewhere else, somewhere more important.

And yet, he kept coming back.

Greg had just finished restocking some mugs when Cat walked up beside him, hands on her hips, eyes full of mischief. "So," she said, dragging the word out, "who's Mr. Tall, Dark and Mysterious in the corner?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Don't start."

Cat smirked, leaning on the counter as she glanced toward Mycroft, who was, as usual, seated with his laptop, tea perfectly steeped, and pastry half-eaten with absurdly precise bites. "I've seen him in here every day for weeks, Greg. And unless I'm mistaken, that's not just some guy stopping in for a cuppa and a slice of cake."

Greg sighed, knowing there was no avoiding this conversation. "His name's Mycroft Holmes. He's… some sort of government guy, I think."

Cat's eyebrows shot up. "Government? Well, that explains the suit. He looks like the kind of man who was born in a three-piece."

Greg laughed. "No kidding. He orders the same thing every day, sits in the same spot, works on whatever mysterious files he's got, and tips like he's trying to single-handedly save this place from going under."

Cat whistled low. "Well, I like him already. If he wants to keep throwing money at us, I say let the man have his tea however the hell he wants it."

Greg chuckled, but Cat wasn't done. She turned back to him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"But I wasn't asking about his suit or his tea, Greg. I was asking about you."

Greg groaned. "Oh, here we go."

Cat smirked. "I see how you look at him."

Greg scoffed. "I look at him the way I look at every customer."

Cat snorted. "Sure, and I'm the Queen of England. Come on, dear. You're curious about him. And if I didn't know any better, I'd say he's curious about you too."

Greg frowned, glancing toward Mycroft without meaning to. The other man hadn't looked up from his laptop, but Greg had the distinct feeling he was aware of their conversation.

"Look, it's not like that," Greg muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "He's… interesting, yeah. But I don't think he's the type to-"

Cat cut him off with a knowing grin. "People aren't always the types we expect them to be, dear. Just… keep an open mind, yeah?"

Greg sighed, shaking his head as he grabbed a dish towel and started wiping the counter again. "He's just a customer, Cat."

Cat chuckled, heading back to arrange some pastries in the display case. "Sure, Greg. Whatever you say."

Greg went back to his tasks, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Cat wasn't wrong.

And what unsettled him the most was the fact that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted her to be.

Greg noticed it as soon as he strummed the first few chords. Mycroft wasn't at his table.

Normally, by this hour, Mycroft would have finished his tea, closed his laptop with the same deliberate precision he did everything else, and left without much more than a nod of acknowledgment. But tonight, he lingered.

Instead of working, Mycroft was at the shelves, running his fingers along the spines of books, occasionally pulling one out to examine.

Greg tried not to get distracted as he played, but it was hard not to watch. Mycroft didn't browse like most customers. No idle flipping through pages, no casual glancing. He handled books with the same calculated attention he applied to everything else, like he was analyzing them rather than reading them.

Greg finished the song and let the final note fade into the warm air of room before setting his guitar aside. There was still a small handful of customers enjoying their drinks, but his attention was elsewhere.

He stood up, dusting off his hands, and made his way over to where Mycroft was standing.

"You know," Greg said, leaning lightly against the shelf next to him, "I think this is the first time I've seen you away from that table."

Mycroft hummed, still focused on the book in his hands. A well-worn edition of 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.

"Your selection is… surprisingly extensive," Mycroft said without looking up.

Greg smirked. "Surprising, huh? You didn't think I'd have good taste in literature?"

Finally, Mycroft met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I simply hadn't considered what your collection might entail."

Greg snorted. "Right. I'll take that as a compliment, I guess." He nodded toward the book Mycroft was holding. "So, you a fan of Wilde?"

There was the faintest twitch at the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "One could say that I appreciate the nuances of his work."

Greg crossed his arms. "Nuances, huh? Alright, hit me with your take. What's Dorian Gray really about?"

Mycroft studied him for a moment, as if assessing whether Greg was actually interested or just trying to make conversation.

Then, with his usual precision, he spoke. "It is a commentary on vanity, on the dangers of unchecked hedonism, and on the fragility of one's own morality. Dorian Gray is both the architect of his downfall and a victim of his own choices."

Greg blinked. "Well, damn."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Were you expecting a less detailed response?"

Greg chuckled. "No, just… most people would've gone with 'it's about a guy who doesn't age because of a creepy painting'."

Mycroft let out a small huff of amusement. "And yet, the truth is rarely so simple."

Greg nodded slowly, eyes flickering back to the book. "You wanna buy it? Or borrow it? I can set you up with our library card."

Mycroft hesitated. Not out of indecision, Greg realized, but as if he wasn't used to the idea of borrowing something as ordinary as a novel.

"Perhaps," Mycroft finally said, closing the book carefully. "Though I suspect I may already own a copy somewhere."

Greg smirked. "Well, if you need any suggestions or wanna borrow a different book, your first one's on me. Free of charge"

For a moment, Mycroft just looked at him. And Greg wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the faintest trace of surprise in his expression - like he wasn't used to people offering him things without expecting something in return.

Then, Mycroft inclined his head slightly. "A generous offer."

Greg shrugged. "What can I say? I like keeping my customers happy."

Mycroft considered him for another second before tucking the book under his arm. "Then I suppose I'll take you up on it."

Greg grinned, leaning slightly against the bookshelf. "Well, if you liked Dorian Gray, I've got a few recommendations you might enjoy."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but still maintaining his composed demeanour. "Do you, now?"

Greg nodded, rubbing his hands together before gesturing for Mycroft to follow him toward a different shelf. "Yeah. If you're into dark, philosophical novels with a bit of moral decay thrown in, I've got just the thing."

He scanned the shelf for a moment before pulling out a copy of 'The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde'. "Classic. Another one about duality and self-destruction. Bit shorter than Dorian Gray, but the themes are right up your alley."

Mycroft took the book from Greg's hand, inspecting the worn cover. "Stevenson's take on morality is rather more externalized than Wilde's. The monster within, given physical form. A blunt metaphor, but an effective one."

Greg smirked. "Alright, fair enough. You want something a little more subtle?" He turned and plucked a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray's lesser-known cousin – 'The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner' by James Hogg.

"This one's about a guy who's convinced he's divinely righteous, but in reality, he's just slowly losing his grip on reality. Super unreliable narrator, lots of eerie vibes, and you're never really sure what's real and what isn't. It's a trip."

Mycroft flipped through the first few pages, eyes scanning the text with sharp precision. "Intriguing. Psychological descent, religious zealotry… Scottish Gothic literature is often overlooked, yet it provides some of the most chilling narratives."

Greg chuckled. "That a yes?"

Mycroft glanced up at him, an almost imperceptible smirk ghosting across his lips. "It appears you might actually know what you're talking about, Mr. Lestrade."

Greg placed a dramatic hand over his heart. "You wound me. What do you think I do here all day?"

Mycroft hummed. "I was under the impression that most bookshop owners simply stocked shelves. You, however, seem to have actually read your inventory."

Greg laughed. "Yeah, well, don't go spreading that around. Bad for my reputation." He nodded toward the book still in Mycroft's hands. "Should we set up your library card then?."

Mycroft hesitated for the briefest moment before tucking both books under his arm. "Very well."

Greg grinned and clapped his hands together. "Alright then."

He led Mycroft back to the counter and pulled out a small index card, the same kind he used for every regular who wanted to borrow books from Novel Grounds' informal lending system. It wasn't a real library, but Arthur had always insisted that books were meant to be shared, read, and returned when they were ready to find another reader. Greg had kept that tradition alive.

"Name?" Greg asked, smirking as he pulled out a pen, even though he already knew the answer.

Mycroft gave him a pointed look. "You already know my name."

Greg shrugged, pen poised. "Yeah, but it's for the records. You wouldn't want to mess with my highly sophisticated tracking system, would you?" He gestured toward a wooden recipe box labelled 'Library Cards' in slightly smudged ink.

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "Mycroft Holmes."

Greg scribbled it down, then glanced up. "Address?"

Mycroft paused, fingers still resting on the books he had chosen. "That won't be necessary."

Greg arched an eyebrow. "No address? What if you try to run off with my precious copy?"

Mycroft lifted his chin slightly. "I assure you, I have no intention of committing literary theft."

Greg snorted. "Alright, alright. I'll just put you down as 'mystery man, corner seat, four o'clock sharp.'" He wrote exactly that on the card, then slid it into the box.

Mycroft didn't comment, but Greg swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Right then," Greg said, closing the box. "You're officially a member of the Novel Grounds Lending Library. No late fees, no due dates, just bring them back when you're done. Unless you do plan on stealing them, in which case, I'll have to send my Aunt Cat after you."

Mycroft smirked. "I imagine that would be quite the threat."

Greg grinned. "Oh, you have no idea."

Mycroft carefully put the book into his briefcase.

"Enjoy the book, Mycroft," Greg said with a smile, "Same time tomorrow?"

Mycroft met his gaze, something unreadable in his expression. "I intend to." And with that, he left the shop.

Greg watched as Mycroft's figure disappeared down the cobbled street, coat collar turned up against the autumn breeze. He shook his head to himself, still slightly amused by the entire interaction.

"Oh, you're in trouble, lad."

Greg startled slightly as Cat appeared at his side, a knowing smirk plastered across her face.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Please, no."

Cat ignored his plea, leaning against the counter with all the smugness of someone who had just caught onto something interesting. "You were flirting with him."

Greg scoffed. "I was not."

"You absolutely were."

"I was recommending books. You know, like a bookshop owner does?"

Cat waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, come on, Greg. The teasing, the lingering eye contact, the whole 'should I set up your library card?' bit. If that wasn't flirting, I don't know what is."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I do that with other customers too!"

Cat raised an eyebrow. "Do you, though? Because I don't see you personally curating gothic literature selections for anyone else."

Greg opened his mouth, then shut it. Damn it.

Cat's grin widened at his silence. "Exactly."

He sighed dramatically, tossing the dish towel onto the counter. "Look, even if I were flirting, which I'm not-"

"-You absolutely are-" she hummed.

"-Even if I were," Greg emphasized, "I doubt Mr. I-Steep-My-Tea-With-Military-Precision is interested."

Cat shrugged, completely unbothered. "You never know. He does keep coming back, doesn't he?"

Greg frowned at that, glancing toward the door Mycroft had just walked out of. He did keep coming back. Like clockwork.

Greg huffed. "It's just because we make good tea."

Cat snorted. "Sure, dear. Keep telling yourself that."

And with that, she patted his cheek playfully and wandered off to tend to the display case, leaving Greg standing there, mildly flustered and completely unconvinced by his own excuses.

As the bell above the shop door chimed once more with a new customer entering, Greg forced himself to shake off whatever this was and got back to work. But even as he prepared drinks and exchanged small talk with regulars, his mind kept circling back to Cat's words.

'You were flirting with him.'

Was he?

Greg wasn't exactly subtle when he liked someone. He liked to joke, to tease, to make people feel comfortable. But this was different. This was Mycroft Holmes, a man who didn't seem like he even understood the concept of casual conversation, let alone flirting.

Maybe it was just friendly banter, a natural extension of the push and pull between them. Or maybe, just maybe, Cat wasn't entirely wrong.

Greg leaned against the counter as the shop quieted down again, chewing over the thought.

It didn't matter, anyway. Even if – if - he had been flirting, Mycroft Holmes was the last person who would ever entertain the idea.

Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. Blokes like Mycroft didn't go for blokes like him.

If Mycroft was into men - which Greg had no reason to assume - he'd be the type to date someone in his own world. Some posh intellectual, probably from old money, maybe even royalty. Someone refined and polished, someone with a background as pristine as his suits.

Not a bookshop owner who barely kept the bills paid, played guitar for tips, and had a degree in criminal justice he wasn't even using.

Greg exhaled slowly, shaking his head at himself. It was ridiculous to even think about.

Whatever this was - if it was anything at all - it was just a bit of curiosity. A bit of friendly back-and-forth with a man who happened to be interesting, frustrating, and slightly amusing in his odd way.

And that was all it would ever be. At least, that's what Greg told himself.

But when 4 PM rolled around the next day, and the bell above the shop door rang with perfect, predictable timing, Greg couldn't stop himself from glancing up just a little too quickly.

Chapter Text

Greg had turned Arthur's old bedroom into the shop's new office, a practical decision that made things feel more official - even if part of him still felt strange repurposing the space.

It was different now. The once cozy bedroom, filled with Arthur's old books and worn-in furniture, had been transformed into a functional workspace. A sturdy desk stood where the bed used to be, lined with folders, invoices, and order sheets. A filing cabinet took up one corner, filled with all the shop's receipts and records, and shelves now held business-related documents instead of novels.

Cat's husband Tom had given Greg his old computer to use, which - while a bit outdated - worked well enough for bookkeeping and inventory management. It was a far cry from Arthur's handwritten ledgers, which Greg had spent the past several evenings digitalizing.

Greg sighed as he stared at the screen, his eyes blurring slightly from scrolling through numbers. Arthur had been meticulous, but old-fashioned. Every order, every expense, every note about regular customers had been written in his careful, looping handwriting.

Greg had promised himself he'd keep things running, but that also meant bringing Novel Grounds into the modern world. And that meant long nights spent converting decades of handwritten records into a system that actually made sense.

He leaned back in his chair, stretching. It was exhausting but necessary.

A knock on the open door made him glance up. Cat leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Still at it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Greg let out a tired chuckle. "You know me. Living the high life."

Cat stepped into the room, glancing at the half-empty cup of coffee sitting next to him. "You need a break, dear. You've been at this for weeks."

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well… it's gotta get done. Arthur kept everything in these ledgers, and if I don't update it, I'll never keep track of what we owe, what we're making, and what we need to order."

Cat softened, stepping closer. "I get it, Greg. I do. But you don't have to do it all alone."

Greg exhaled, glancing at the pile of still-unscanned pages next to the computer. "I know. Just… feels like I should. Like it's my responsibility now."

Cat gave him a knowing smile. "It is. But that doesn't mean you can't lean on people every now and then."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "You sound like Arthur."

"Good," Cat said with a grin. "That means I'm doing something right."

She nudged his arm and said, "I stocked your fridge with some leftovers, so you won't have to live on coffee and whatever's left in the pastry case."

Greg blinked, then let out a small laugh. "Cat, you don't have to do that."

She gave him a pointed look. "I know, but if I don't, you'll forget to eat properly. And I'm not about to let you waste away just because you're too busy playing shopkeeper."

Greg smiled, shaking his head. "You're a saint, you know that?"

Cat patted his shoulder, "Yeah, yeah, just don't let it go to your head. I'm heading home now. Tom's expecting me for dinner."

Greg stood up and pulled her into a quick hug. "Thanks, Cat. For everything."

She squeezed him back, then ruffled his hair like she had when he was a kid. "Always, dear. Try not to work yourself to death, yeah?"

Greg watched as she headed out, the warmth of her presence lingering even after she was gone.

Cat wasn't just his aunt - she was the closest thing to a mother he'd had since losing his own. And though she'd never say it outright, he knew she worried about him just as much as Arthur always had.

With a deep breath, Greg glanced back at the half-finished digital ledger on the screen.

Then, deciding he'd done enough for one night, he turned the computer off. Greg grabbed his jacket and checked his watch. He still had a bit of time, but he knew if he stayed in the shop any longer, he'd find something else to busy himself with. Another bill to check, another stack of books to organize.

And he had promised to go out tonight.

Some of his mates from university had been after him for weeks to meet up for drinks, and after enough excuses about being too busy with the shop, he finally caved. They were meeting at a bar down the street, nothing fancy just a small, lively pub where they could catch up, have a few pints, and reminisce about how none of them had ended up exactly where they thought they would.

Greg pulled on his coat and switched off the lights in the office before heading downstairs. The shop was already locked up for the night, the warm glow from the street lamps outside spilling through the windows, casting soft golden light across the bookshelves.

With a final glance around Novel Grounds, Greg stepped outside into the cool autumn air, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he made his way toward the pub.

A night out with old friends - it was exactly what he needed. Something simple, something normal.

Greg pushed open the door of the pub, stepping into the familiar warmth of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversation. The place was already busy, the air thick with the scent of ale and fried food.

It didn't take long to spot his mates from university at a booth near the back, a half-empty pitcher of beer already on the table.

"Oi, Lestrade!" Danny, a tall bloke with messy blond hair, called out, lifting his glass. "Thought you forgot how to have fun."

Greg grinned, shaking his head as he slid into the booth next to Matt, another friend from his university days. "Nah, just been busy, you know. Keeping a business afloat and all that."

Matt smirked. "Yeah, yeah, we know. Novel Grounds this, Novel Grounds that. You've gone full old-man mode, mate."

Greg snorted. "Says the guy who works in risk assessment."

"Hey, I'll have you know I assess risks very enthusiastically." Matt grinned before pouring Greg a pint from the pitcher. "Now, drink up. You're already behind."

Greg took the glass with a nod of thanks and took a long sip, the cold bitterness settling nicely after a long day.

"So," Danny leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. "Any new customers catching your eye, Greggy?"

Greg nearly choked on his beer. "What?"

Matt chuckled. "Oh, come on, man. It's been months since we've heard you talk about dating. There's gotta be someone interesting."

Greg rolled his eyes, but before he could protest, Liam, the most observant of the group, raised an eyebrow. "Actually… now that I think about it, you've got that look. You've been thinking about someone."

Greg huffed a laugh. "Oh, piss off. I've been thinking about my bills, if that's what you mean."

Danny wasn't convinced. "Nah, see, that's where you're wrong. You have that look. The one where your brain's working overtime about someone who isn't a book character."

Greg tried very hard not to think about a certain man with auburn hair, sharp blue-grey eyes, and a tendency to order tea with military precision.

He failed.

"Alright, fine," Greg sighed, leaning back against the booth. "There's this bloke… a regular at the shop. Comes in every weekday, exactly at 4 PM. Orders the same thing, sits in the same spot, barely talks."

Matt tilted his head. "Oh, so he's weird. Perfect for you."

Greg chuckled. "He's not weird. He's just… particular."

Danny smirked. "Particular, huh? Particular in a fit kind of way?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "He's a customer."

Liam leaned in, clearly intrigued. "But you like him."

Greg opened his mouth to deny it - of course he was going to deny it - but nothing came out. His silence lasted about two seconds too long.

Danny and Matt both burst out laughing. "Oh, this is brilliant!" Danny declared, slamming his pint on the table. "Greg Lestrade falling for a mystery man."

Greg groaned, running a hand down his face. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to!" Matt grinned. "Mate, you've got a type. And from the way you're talking, this guy fits it perfectly."

Greg shook his head, but he couldn't quite fight off the small, reluctant smile creeping onto his lips.

Because maybe they weren't entirely wrong.

The night carried on with the easy comfort of old friendships, filled with half-remembered university stories, exaggerated tales of work disasters, and merciless teasing at Greg's expense.

"So let me get this straight," Danny said, wiping a tear from his eye after laughing too hard. "You've got some posh bloke coming into your shop every day at the exact same time, ordering his tea like it's a bloody science experiment, tipping generously, and now he's checking out your bookshelves?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "It's not like that."

Matt grinned, topping off Greg's pint. "Mate, it sounds exactly like that."

Liam smirked over his drink. "And you're telling me you don't find him interesting?"

Greg hesitated. He wanted to deny it but after a few drinks and the warm haze of laughter, he found himself too comfortable to lie.

"Fine," he muttered, lifting his glass. "He's interesting."

Danny whooped, pointing at him dramatically. "Ah-ha! There it is! Greg's got a crush on Mr. Fancy Tea Order."

Greg groaned into his drink. "I hate you all."

Matt snickered. "So what's his deal? You said government type? Think he's MI5?"

Greg snorted. "More likely the guy they send to tell MI5 they've cocked something up. He's sharp. Too sharp. Talks like he's choosing every word with precision."

Liam tilted his head. "So not just some businessman, then?"

Greg shrugged. "Dunno. But he's got this way of looking at things. Like he's constantly assessing everything around him. Like he's got a hundred thoughts running at once but only lets you hear the one that benefits him most."

Danny leaned forward, grinning. "And that's attractive to you?"

Greg groaned, but he couldn't deny it. Mycroft Holmes was infuriatingly compelling - his sharp mind, his composed demeanour, the way he spoke in precise sentences and yet somehow still managed to be a little bit smug.

"Maybe I just like a challenge," Greg muttered, taking another sip of his pint.

Danny smirked. "Oh, you're in so much trouble, mate."

Greg rolled his eyes and changed the subject, but the teasing never quite stopped.

They drank more, laughed harder, and let the night stretch on - the kind of night that reminded Greg why he needed this, why he needed his friends, his shop, his simple life.

And yet, as the night wound down, his thoughts kept drifting back to 4 PM.

Because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was looking forward to seeing Mycroft again.

His head throbbed, and his body felt sluggish as he shuffled into Novel Grounds early that morning, the smell of coffee doing nothing to ease his suffering. He rubbed his temples, groaning as he unlocked the door and stepped inside, already dreading the long day ahead.

He barely had time to get the first pot of coffee brewing before Cat arrived, her sharp eyes immediately assessing the damage.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Greg," she sighed, hands on her hips as she looked him up and down. "What did you do to yourself?"

Greg groaned and leaned against the counter. "Had a few pints with the lads."

"A few?" She gave him a look.

Greg winced. "Maybe more than a few."

Cat huffed, shaking her head as she walked around the counter and began sorting the fresh pastries she'd brought in that morning. "Honestly, Gregory, you run a business now. You can't be drinking like you're still a uni student."

Greg rubbed his face, muttering, "I know, I know. I just… hadn't seen them in a while, and they wouldn't stop teasing me about-" He stopped himself abruptly, realizing he had said too much.

Cat froze mid-movement. Slowly, a mischievous glint appeared in her eyes. "Oh? Teasing you about what, exactly?"

Greg internally cursed himself.

"Nothing," he muttered quickly, grabbing a clean mug and pouring himself a very necessary cup of coffee.

Cat smirked. "Gregory Lestrade, you are a terrible liar."

Greg sighed. He was too tired for this. "They may have… asked about a certain regular customer of mine."

Cat immediately perked up. "You mean Mycroft Holmes?"

Greg groaned, forehead hitting the counter. "Why does everyone have to make this a thing?"

Cat laughed, patting his back. "Because, my dear boy, you don't get interested in people often. And when you do, it's painfully obvious."

Greg lifted his head just enough to glare at her. "He's a customer, Cat. That's all."

Cat gave him a knowing smile. "Uh-huh. And yet, here you are, hungover because you spent the night defending your mysterious, punctual, government-adjacent book borrower to your mates."

Greg scoffed, but he couldn't actually deny it.

Cat chuckled, setting down a tray of freshly baked scones. "Listen, dear, I'm glad you went out. You were always someone who liked going out, socializing, meeting people. Tom and I worried you'd bury yourself in work when you took over, but last night proves you haven't completely lost that side of yourself."

Greg sighed, softening slightly. "Yeah, well, thanks for worrying, but I'm fine."

Cat smiled. "I know. But it's still nice to see you being you again- Even if you're nursing a headache this morning."

Greg grumbled as he took a sip of his coffee, but deep down, he appreciated it.

And as the morning rush started and the day found its usual rhythm, Greg couldn't help but glance at the clock.

4 PM was still a few hours away.

And he was already wondering if Mycroft would show up right on time.

At exactly 4 PM, the bell above the door chimed, and in walked Mycroft Holmes, as predictably as ever.

But this time, something was off. Greg noticed it immediately.

The man still carried himself with his usual straight-backed posture, still wore his impeccably tailored coat, still scanned the shop with his calculating gaze, but he wasn't quite right.

For starters, he had a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, tucked into his coat like he was trying to keep in every bit of warmth he could. His nose was red, his eyes slightly glassy, and when he reached the counter, he sniffled quietly.

Greg raised an eyebrow as he wiped his hands on a towel. "Well, you look terrible."

Mycroft blinked, mildly affronted. "Charming."

Greg smirked, leaning on the counter. "What happened to you? Catch the plague?"

Mycroft sighed, pulling off his leather gloves with deliberate slowness, like even that was exhausting. "An unfortunate case of the common cold, I'm afraid."

Greg huffed a laugh. "Didn't think someone like you could catch something as ordinary as a cold."

"I assure you," Mycroft muttered, clearly unamused, "I find it just as inconvenient as you do."

Greg watched as Mycroft scanned the menu, even though they both knew he was going to order the exact same thing.

"Earl Grey. Loose leaf. Four minutes. Lemon on the side. No sugar and a splash of milk."

Greg crossed his arms, shaking his head. "You're seriously gonna have your usual? You look like you're two sneezes away from collapsing into your briefcase."

Mycroft straightened slightly, offended by the very idea. "I am perfectly fine."

Greg snorted. "Mate, you sound like you're talking through a pillow."

Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose - which, given its current state, was probably a mistake. He sniffled immediately afterward, proving Greg's point.

Greg shook his head, already grabbing a different tea blend. "Yeah, alright, no. You're not getting your usual today."

Mycroft frowned. "Excuse me?"

Greg ignored him, setting out a different tea mix. "I'm making you something that'll actually help, alright? Peppermint, honey, ginger, lemon. It'll clear your sinuses and actually help you get better."

Mycroft looked at him like he'd just suggested something absurd. "That isn't necessary."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Humour me. Consider it an investment in your continued ability to show up here at 4 PM sharp."

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, then paused. He eyed Greg carefully, as if trying to figure out why he even cared.

Greg simply raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to fight it.

Finally, Mycroft exhaled, too tired to put up a real resistance. "Very well," he muttered, like it physically pained him to accept help.

Greg smirked. "Good. Now, go sit before you drop dead in the pastry display."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes but said nothing, moving toward his usual seat with slightly less grace than usual.

Greg set to work, pouring hot water over the herbal blend, watching the steam rise as the scent of peppermint and ginger filled the air.

As he stirred in the honey and lemon, he glanced over at Mycroft, who was wrapped in his coat like a disgruntled cat, rubbing absently at his temple as he stared at his unopened laptop.

Greg shook his head fondly. This bloke was ridiculous. But, for some reason, Greg didn't mind taking care of him.

He carried the steaming cup and Mycroft's favourite pastry over to his table, setting it down with a satisfied nod. "There. A proper cold remedy. No precise brewing times needed. And on the house."

Mycroft glanced at the cup as if assessing whether he should trust it. "It smells… strong."

Greg smirked. "That's the ginger. It'll clear out your sinuses in no time."

Mycroft let out a soft huff, wrapping his hands around the cup but not yet taking a sip. "You seem oddly invested in my recovery, Greg."

Greg crossed his arms, leaning against the nearby bookshelf. "Well, considering you keep showing up here every day like a well-dressed phantom, I figure it's in my best interest to make sure you don't keel over in my shop."

Mycroft let out a quiet chuckle, though it turned into a cough halfway through. He sighed, clearly too tired to keep up his usual verbal sparring.

Greg softened slightly. "You look like death warmed over."

Mycroft, despite his clear congestion and general state of misery, lifted his gaze slightly and scanned Greg with the same sharpness as always. His eyes - though slightly glassy from whatever virus had taken hold of him - narrowed just a fraction.

"Hmm," Mycroft hummed, voice thick with congestion but still somehow cutting. "And you look hungover."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, well, at least I don't sound like I've been inhaling dust out of a Victorian chimney."

Mycroft tilted his head. "I fail to see how that negates my observation."

Greg rolled his eyes, but he couldn't exactly argue. His head still throbbed slightly, and the multiple pints from last night had not been his brightest decision.

"Had a night out with some mates," Greg admitted, rubbing his temple. "You know I actually have a social life. Apart from serving you tea."

Mycroft huffed quietly, a sound that might have been amusement if it weren't immediately followed by a cough. He pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his coat pocket, pressing it to his mouth before sighing.

"Well," he muttered, voice even raspier now, "it appears we're both suffering from the consequences of our choices."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, except mine was fun. Yours just looks miserable."

Mycroft gave him a long, unimpressed stare. "I would argue that your version of 'fun' involved significantly more poor decisions."

Greg shrugged, not denying it. "Maybe. But at least my bad decisions didn't involve forcing myself out into public when I should've been in bed."

Mycroft sniffed, straightened his spine despite the obvious exhaustion, and lifted his chin. "I am not so easily defeated by a minor illness."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Right. And how's that working out for you?"

Mycroft sniffled again, his red nose ruining any attempt at dignity.

Greg smirked. "Yeah. That's what I thought. Just drink it," he said, nudging the cup closer. "It won't kill you."

Mycroft finally relented, lifting the cup and taking a cautious sip.

Greg watched as Mycroft paused, blinking once, then twice. His lips pressed together, as if he didn't want to admit that it was actually good.

Greg grinned. "Told you. Works wonders."

Mycroft set the cup down with deliberate precision, exhaling slowly. His shoulders, which had been unusually tense, seemed to relax just slightly.

"Acceptable," he finally muttered.

Greg snorted. "High praise."

Mycroft merely sipped again, saying nothing.

Greg hesitated for a moment, then patted the back of Mycroft's chair lightly. "You, uh… need anything else, just shout. I'll be around."

He didn't wait for a response before heading back behind the counter.

But as he glanced back over, he caught Mycroft watching him - just for a second - before returning to his tea.

Greg shook his head again, chuckling to himself. This bloke was definitely ridiculous. And Greg was definitely in trouble.

Greg was wiping down a nearby table when he heard Mycroft clear his throat - a little softer than usual, a little hesitant, which was not at all like him.

"Greg," Mycroft said, his voice still hoarse but steady.

Greg turned, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Mycroft adjusted the scarf still wrapped tightly around his neck and sighed, as if reluctant to admit what he was about to say.

"It seems," he began, choosing his words carefully, "that I will be spending the weekend confined to my flat, given the unfortunate persistence of this… illness."

Greg smirked. "You don't say."

Mycroft ignored him. "Since I will be… unable to conduct my usual activities, I would prefer to at least remain occupied."

Greg leaned on the table, crossing his arms. "Uh-huh. And?"

Mycroft exhaled sharply, a little too sharp, given his current state, because it ended with another sniffle. His jaw tensed as though annoyed at his own body.

"And," he said, looking just a touch annoyed, "I require something to read."

Greg grinned. "You're asking me for more book recommendations?"

"Must you always sound so smug about it?" Mycroft muttered.

Greg laughed, shaking his head as he pulled off his apron. "Alright, alright, I can work with this. So, what's the mood? You want more Gothic moral decay, or are we branching out?"

Mycroft hesitated, then pressed his lips together slightly. "Something… engaging. Perhaps less philosophical debate, more immersive narrative."

Greg snapped his fingers. "Got it. Crime."

Mycroft blinked. "Excuse me?"

Greg smirked as he walked toward the bookshelves. "You like structure, yeah? Logic, reasoning, things fitting into neat little boxes? But you also enjoy a bit of psychological depth. So I'm thinking classic detective fiction."

Mycroft tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. "Go on."

Greg ran his fingers along the spines before pulling out a copy of 'The Big Sleep' by Raymond Chandler.

"Hardboiled detective fiction," Greg said, handing it over. "Philip Marlowe is an old-school private investigator. Sharp, cynical, operates on his own moral compass. Lots of wit, lots of tension. Think of it as a more chaotic version of your daily life, minus the tailored suits."

Mycroft gave him a flat look. "I'll have you know, my daily life is quite structured."

Greg smirked. "Exactly. Which is why reading about someone with terrible decision-making skills might be fun for you."

Mycroft huffed but took the book anyway.

Greg scanned the shelves again, then pulled out a copy of 'And Then There Were None' by Agatha Christie.

"This one's a classic," Greg said, handing it over. "A bunch of strangers, a remote island, mysterious deaths, and one hell of an ending. It's clever. You'd appreciate it."

Mycroft inspected the cover, nodding in approval. "Christie's structuring is precise. That could be acceptable."

Greg grinned. "Oh, so now we're calling books 'acceptable' instead of 'tolerable'? Progress."

Mycroft rolled his eyes but didn't hand the books back.

Greg grabbed one more, smirking as he held it up. "And just for fun, something completely different."

He placed a copy of 'Good Omens' by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman into Mycroft's hands.

Mycroft frowned. "This is-"

"Funny, clever, British, and full of dry wit." Greg smirked. "You'll love it."

Mycroft eyed him with suspicion. "You sound alarmingly confident."

Greg grinned, tapping the book. "If you don't like it, you can tell me I was wrong. But I won't be."

Mycroft exhaled, clearly too tired to argue. "Fine."

Greg leaned against the bookshelf, pleased with himself. "See? Look at you, trusting me with book choices. Who would've thought?"

Mycroft glanced at the books in his hands, then back at Greg. "This remains to be determined."

Greg chuckled. "Fair enough. But hey at least now you've got something to do while you're recovering from your 'unfortunate illness'."

Mycroft gave him a long, unimpressed stare.

Greg just smirked. Because he wasn't wrong.

Mycroft adjusted his cashmere scarf before speaking again. "Would it be acceptable to leave the ones I've finished on the table?"

Greg blinked, surprised at the question. Mycroft had been bringing back the books in perfect condition, but he'd always returned them directly to Greg at the counter - never just left them behind.

Greg shrugged. "Yeah, no problem. I'll shelf them later." He smirked. "Unless you're planning to abandon them like an unsupervised child?"

Mycroft gave him a flat, unimpressed look. "I would never be so careless."

Greg snorted. "Of course not. Didn't think you had it in you."

Mycroft merely lifted an eyebrow, but Greg caught the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes. And as Mycroft set down a neat stack of books on the table Greg couldn't resist asking.

"So?" he said, leaning against the table. "Did I live up to the hype? Were my latest recommendations as 'acceptable' as always?"

Mycroft adjusted his cashmere scarf, gaze flicking briefly to the books before returning to Greg. "They were… sufficient."

Greg scoffed. "Oh, come on. You can do better than that."

Mycroft sighed, as if resigning himself to indulging Greg's curiosity. He tapped the cover of 'The Monk' first.

"Lewis' descent into depravity is excessive," Mycroft commented, "but undeniably compelling. The novel's indulgence in scandal, horror, and moral collapse is as fascinating as it is grotesque."

Greg grinned. "So you liked it?"

Mycroft gave a small nod. "Its critique of religious hypocrisy is blatant, but its execution is bold for its time. I'll admit, the sheer audacity of it was… entertaining."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, 'entertaining' is a polite way to put it. It's basically the 18th-century version of a horror film gone too far."

Mycroft ignored the comment and moved on to the next book. He rested his fingers on the cover of 'Wuthering Heights'.

Greg smirked, already expecting a complaint. "And this one?"

Mycroft exhaled sharply. "A testament to obsession in its most unrestrained form. Every character is insufferable, and yet one cannot look away."

Greg chuckled. "That's the point, mate. You're not supposed to like them. You're supposed to get sucked into their self-destruction."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "A study in destructive passion, then."

"Pretty much," Greg said, crossing his arms. "So, did you hate it, or did it make you dramatically stare out a window and contemplate the futility of love?"

Mycroft sighed. "I am not Heathcliff."

Greg barked out a laugh. "You so are."

Mycroft's glare was swift but not particularly sharp, which only made Greg grin wider. Moving on, Mycroft picked up the final book in the stack 'Melmoth the Wanderer'.

Greg watched with interest. "Now, that one I was real curious about. What'd you think?"

For the first time, Mycroft hesitated. Greg watched as Mycroft's fingers tapped lightly against the book's cover, almost absentmindedly.

"It was…" Mycroft paused, as if choosing his words carefully.

Greg leaned in, grinning. "Go on. Admit you liked it."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, then finally muttered, "Intriguing."

Greg barked out a laugh. "Oh my God, you actually liked it!"

Mycroft straightened his posture, clearly unamused by Greg's enthusiasm. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," Greg said, smug. "I can tell. You actually enjoyed something that wasn't written purely for philosophical debate."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "The concept of a figure eternally condemned to roam the earth, whispering temptation to the vulnerable, is an effective one. Its execution was… striking."

Greg smirked. "And the atmosphere? The creeping paranoia? The feeling that you're never quite alone?"

A pause. Finally, Mycroft conceded, in a tone so begrudgingly low Greg almost missed it, "The tension was… well-crafted."

Greg beamed. "Knew it!"

Mycroft gave him a flat look, but Greg swore he saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Greg leaned on the table, satisfied. "Alright, Holmes. I'll count that as a win."

Mycroft sighed as he straightening his scarf again. "I look forward to your continued-" he paused, searching for the right word "-enthusiasm."

Greg laughed. "See? That's the spirit."

And as Greg returned to the counter, he couldn't help but feel ridiculously pleased with himself. Because whether Mycroft admitted it or not, Greg had figured something out.

Mycroft Holmes didn't just tolerate his book recommendations. He actually enjoyed them.

It had become a routine now - Mycroft would return books, Greg would immediately replace them with new ones, tailored specifically to what he thought Mycroft would enjoy next.

It was a game, in a way. Greg trying to surprise him, challenge him, push him into something just a little bit outside his comfort zone.

And, despite Mycroft's perpetual air of mild suffering, he always accepted the recommendations without protest.

This had become their thing.

And Greg had to admit - he enjoyed it more than he probably should.

The evening rush had kept Greg busy, pulling shots of espresso, serving tea, and chatting with the regulars who had come in to enjoy the warm, cozy atmosphere of Novel Grounds.

By the time he finally got around to clearing off Mycroft's table, he wasn't surprised to find the usual empty teacup and a generous tip placed precisely beside the saucer.

What did surprise him, however, was the document tucked beneath the books.

At first, Greg assumed it was just another book order form or one of the loose papers Mycroft occasionally jotted notes on. But as soon as he picked it up, his stomach dropped.

The paper was stamped - not just with any mark, but with the words HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL in bold red ink at the top.

Greg's brows furrowed as he turned it over. It wasn't just a stray piece of paper - this was official. The kind of thing someone really wouldn't want to fall into the wrong hands.

He swallowed, glancing around the shop as if someone else might have noticed. But no, no one was paying attention. Everyone was caught up in their own conversations, their own books.

Still, Greg felt a sudden weight settle over him.

His first instinct was to take the document straight to the counter and tuck it somewhere safe until Mycroft came back for it. But another part of him - the part of him that had studied criminal justice and still had an investigator's curiosity buried inside him wanted to know exactly what the hell was in it.

He hesitated, fingers gripping the edge of the document.

What could possibly be so important that Mycroft Holmes, a man of meticulous precision, had accidentally left it behind?

His instincts screamed at him to put it away, not to pry. But another part of him - the curious, slightly reckless part - wanted to know exactly what the hell he was holding.

Glancing around the shop once more, ensuring no one was watching, Greg exhaled slowly and unfolded the paper.

The first thing he noticed was the letterhead.

It wasn't just any document. It was government-issued - thick, expensive paper, neatly typed, formal. And at the very top, printed beneath the bold HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL stamp, was a logo Greg recognized immediately.

The British Government.

Greg's pulse kicked up a notch. His eyes skimmed the contents, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Phrases stood out immediately, sharp and alarming.

"Internal security risk."
"Classified operational breach."
"Unauthorized access suspected within governmental sectors."

Greg tightened his grip on the document, his stomach twisting.

Beneath the header was a detailed report, listing incidents of unauthorized data breaches within certain government departments. Some of the names of the offices were blacked out, redacted as if even this copy wasn't meant to contain them.

But then, something even more unsettling caught his eye - a short section marked 'Potential Security Vulnerabilities', where multiple names were listed.

Most of them meant nothing to Greg. Officials, analysts, intelligence personnel - people he assumed were part of whatever internal operation this belonged to.

But one name stood out immediately.

MYCROFT HOLMES.

Greg's breath hitched.

His eyes darted over the paragraph surrounding Mycroft's name, but it wasn't clear what it meant.

"M. Holmes - identified as a key figure in ongoing risk assessment. Additional monitoring recommended pending further internal review."

What the hell did that mean? Was Mycroft investigating a breach? Or was he being investigated?

Greg swallowed hard, quickly folding the paper back up. He had seen too much.

And now he had a hell of a lot of questions.

Shit.

His first thought - this wasn't meant to be here.

His second - Mycroft was going to realize it was missing very, very soon.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. His first instinct was to call him. Let him know. Get him back here before someone else could accidentally stumble upon the document.

But then it hit him - he didn't have Mycroft's number.

Greg froze, cursing under his breath. Of course he didn't.

Despite their increasingly familiar daily interactions, despite the books, the tea, the ridiculous back-and-forths, Greg had never once asked for Mycroft's contact details.

And as for an address?

Greg's eyes flicked toward the library card box, where he'd written Mycroft's information weeks ago.

Except - Mycroft hadn't given an address either. All he had written was his name and 'mystery man, corner seat, four o'clock sharp.'

Greg groaned, rubbing his face with one hand. Unbelievable. He stared at the folded paper in his hands, his mind racing with possibilities.

He had no way of getting in touch with Mycroft. No phone number. No address. No way to track him down before he inevitably showed up again at 4 PM on Monday like clockwork.

Greg sighed. There was nothing else for it.

He folded the document carefully, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He could keep it safe until Monday, and when Mycroft inevitably walked through the door, Greg would hand it over and pretend he hadn't seen anything.

Hopefully.

Because if what little he had skimmed was any indication, he had definitely seen something he shouldn't have.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

"Alright," he muttered to himself, steeling his nerves. "Let's just hope I don't get arrested before Monday."

Greg locked the front door, flipping the sign to CLOSED, before shutting off the main lights and making his way upstairs. His jacket felt heavier than usual, the document tucked inside pressing against his chest like a silent accusation.

He tried to ignore it.

Tried to act like this was just another normal night.

But as he stepped into his flat above the shop, the quiet only made his thoughts louder.

With a tired sigh, he shrugged off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair, and moved toward the small kitchen tucked in the corner. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that Cat had stocked his fridge earlier this month - probably expecting he'd forget to eat properly, as she always did.

He pulled open the door, grabbing one of the containers she had left behind. Some sort of stew, by the smell of it. Simple, warm, comforting.

Exactly what he needed.

As the microwave hummed to life, Greg leaned against the counter, running a hand over his face.

He wasn't stupid. He knew he should have never read that document. Hell, he shouldn't have even kept it.

But what the hell else was he supposed to do? He couldn't just throw it away. Couldn't exactly march into a government office and hand it over.

And more importantly - why the hell was Mycroft's name on it?

Greg rubbed his temple, groaning. "This is a mess."

The microwave beeped, breaking him out of his thoughts. He grabbed the container, spooned some of the stew into a bowl, and took a seat at the small table near the window.

The street outside was quiet, the glow of the old streetlamps flickering softly over the cobbled pavement.

Greg took a bite of the stew, barely tasting it.

All he could think about was Monday.

And the fact that when Mycroft Holmes walked into his shop at exactly 4 PM, Greg was going to demand some damn answers.

Over the weekend, Greg distracted himself with more organizing and digitalizing of the paperwork.
It was easier that way - keeping busy, keeping his hands occupied, instead of thinking too much about the classified document sitting in his jacket pocket.

So, he threw himself into sorting through Arthur's old ledgers, scanning receipts, invoices, and supplier contracts into the computer. He updated the shop's digital records, making sure everything was as neat as possible.

It was tedious work, but it kept his mind from spiralling.

He made lists of what needed ordering for the café, reviewed book sales, and even reworked some pricing on specialty teas - anything to stay busy.

Every so often, though, his eyes would drift toward his jacket, which still hung over the back of a chair, the document hidden away inside.

By Sunday night, Greg was exhausted, but his nerves were still on edge.

Because no matter how much work he did, how much he tried to ignore it, there was still one thing left unresolved.

Chapter Text

Greg had barely switched the lights on, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as he set up for the morning rush, when the bell above the door chimed.

His head snapped up, expecting to see a regular looking for an early coffee fix.

Instead - there he was.

Mycroft Holmes.

Greg froze, coffee mug halfway to his lips.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, his posture as composed as ever, but there was something different. His usual calculated indifference was strained, tension clinging to the set of his shoulders.

His coat was buttoned just a little too tightly, his scarf wrapped with a precision that suggested he'd spent the morning trying to maintain control of something far bigger than wardrobe choices.

And unlike the last time Greg had seen him he didn't look sick anymore. Gone was the red nose, the slight congestion, the glassy exhaustion that had clung to him days ago.

Instead, Mycroft looked as sharp and put-together as ever, but tense. And his eyes - sharp, piercing -locked onto Greg immediately.

Greg set his coffee down slowly. "Well, this is a first. You're about, what, nine hours early? Thought you ran on a strict schedule."

Mycroft didn't even acknowledge the remark. Instead, he strode toward the counter, voice measured, but firm. "You have something of mine."

Greg exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Morning to you too, Mycroft. Tea?"

Mycroft's jaw ticked. "Lestrade."

Greg sighed, reaching into his jacket pocket. He'd expected Mycroft to walk in at 4 PM, calm and composed, maybe a little smug about retrieving his missing file.

Instead, he looked like a man who hadn't slept.

Greg pulled out the folded document and placed it on the counter between them.

"You left it under the books," Greg said, voice even. "Figured it was important."

Mycroft reached for it immediately, but Greg slapped his hand down on top of it before he could take it.

"Before you snatch it back," Greg said, watching him carefully, "maybe you can explain why your name was on it."

For the first time, Mycroft's expression flickered.

Not surprise, not anger, but something close to calculation. Like he was assessing how much Greg had actually seen.

Greg leaned in slightly. "Look, I don't know what kind of top-secret government mess you're in the middle of, but when I see the words 'security breach' and 'monitoring recommended' next to your name, it kinda raises a few questions."

Mycroft straightened, lips pressing into a thin line.

Greg tilted his head, studying him. "So? You gonna tell me what's going on, or am I supposed to just pretend I didn't see a damn thing?"

The air between them grew tense, heavy.

Greg waited, still keeping his hand firmly planted on top of the document, his eyes locked onto Mycroft's.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, with an exhale so measured it seemed practiced, Mycroft finally responded.

"That," he said, voice cool but laced with something heavier, "is none of your concern."

Greg arched an eyebrow. "Right. Because finding a government file with your name under 'security breach' in my shop is totally something I should just ignore?"

Mycroft's jaw ticked.

Greg had seen him annoyed before. Seen him mildly exasperated when Greg teased him, seen him roll his eyes at a particularly bad joke.

But this? This was different. This was controlled restraint. Like he was balancing on a knife's edge.

Greg leaned forward slightly. "You always plan on getting it back like this? Strolling in at dawn, looking like you've been up all night, or were you hoping I'd just hand it over without a word?"

Mycroft tilted his head, considering him. "Would you have?"

Greg huffed a dry laugh. "Not a bloody chance."

For the first time since he'd walked in, Mycroft's expression shifted. It wasn't quite amusement, wasn't quite irritation, but something in between.

Something almost approving.

He exhaled, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a sleek black card, placing it on the counter beside the document.

Greg glanced down, noting the lack of a title, the lack of anything but a single contact number.

"You now have a way to reach me," Mycroft said, tone even. "So in the future, if you come across anything that is… not meant for you, you will contact me immediately. Do I make myself clear?"

Greg picked up the card, running his thumb over the raised digits.

"Crystal," he muttered, before finally lifting his hand from the document.

Mycroft took it with quick precision, folding it neatly before sliding it into his coat.

For a moment, it seemed like that was it. Like he'd simply take his classified paperwork and walk back out the door. But he didn't. Instead, he glanced at Greg, his eyes steady, assessing.

"You read more than just my name, didn't you?"

Greg's jaw tensed, but he didn't bother lying. "Yeah," he admitted. "I did."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. Then, to Greg's surprise, he didn't look angry. He looked… thoughtful. Almost like he'd expected it.

Greg crossed his arms. "So. You gonna tell me what the hell is going on?"

Mycroft hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. And then, with a low sigh, he murmured, "Not here."

Greg arched an eyebrow, not moving from his spot behind the counter. "Right. Because keeping secrets is working out so well for you."

Mycroft exhaled sharply, the type of controlled annoyance that suggested he was used to people obeying his instructions without question.

"Lestrade," he said, his voice still measured but edged with something decidedly unimpressed, "just because you have a degree in criminal justice does not make you a detective."

Greg snorted. "And just because you wear expensive suits and drink overpriced tea doesn't mean you're as untouchable as you think you are."

Mycroft's lips twitched, barely. "Untouchable, no. In control, yes."

Greg leaned forward slightly, arms still crossed. "Yeah? Because from where I'm standing, you don't look like a man who's got everything under control."

A brief flicker of something unreadable passed over Mycroft's face.

It was gone in an instant.

He straightened, adjusting his coat with practiced ease. "Whether I do or not is irrelevant. What matters is that you don't involve yourself in things beyond your comprehension."

Greg let out a laugh, shaking his head. "See, now you're just making me want to know even more."

Mycroft's jaw tightened, but there was no real frustration in his eyes - only calculation.

Greg could tell. He was making a choice. A choice that he didn't trust easily.

And yet, instead of dismissing Greg entirely, Mycroft simply inhaled slowly, then said, "If you insist on asking questions, Lestrade… then I suggest you meet me somewhere more private."

Greg's stomach tightened.

Because that sounded an awful lot like an invitation into something he wasn't sure he was ready for.

The shop began to fill with the early morning regulars and Mycroft decided that was the right moment for him to leave.

Greg noticed the subtle shift in Mycroft's posture. A slight straightening of his spine, a brief glance toward the customers filtering in, and the way his fingers twitched slightly at his cuffs as if to signal that their conversation had reached its limit.

Greg might not be a detective, but he knew a retreat when he saw one.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I'll be in touch."

Greg huffed a short laugh. "Oh? So I don't have to wait until precisely four o'clock tomorrow for you to show up again?"

Mycroft gave him a dry look. "For once, I believe this situation warrants slight deviation from my usual schedule."

Greg smirked, but before he could get in another remark, Mycroft turned smoothly on his heel and strode toward the door, his coat swishing behind him.

Greg watched as he exited, stepping into the early morning mist of Covent Garden, disappearing down the cobbled street with the kind of quiet efficiency that suggested he had somewhere far more important to be.

Greg sighed, rubbing his temples. This was not how he had expected his morning to go.

"Morning, Greg!"

Greg glanced up to see Mrs. Delaney, one of the shop's sweetest and most persistent regulars, smiling warmly as she approached the counter.

"Morning," he greeted, slipping back into business mode, though his thoughts were still a little too tangled up in Mycroft Holmes and whatever mess he had just glimpsed.

As he started making her usual Earl Grey with honey, Greg's gaze flickered back toward the door, his mind still replaying Mycroft's last words.

I'll be in touch.

Greg had no doubt about it.

And something told him - whatever came next, things were about to get a hell of a lot more complicated.

Greg had just finished restocking the pastry case after the morning rush, wiping his hands on a towel, when he heard Cat clear her throat from behind him.

He turned to see her standing in the doorway to the back room, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

Greg sighed. "Oh, here we go."

Cat tilted her head. "You wanna tell me why Mr. 4pm was here at the crack of dawn, looking like he was ready to have a very serious conversation?"

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, knowing there was no getting out of this. "You heard that, huh?"

Cat gave him a pointed look. "Gregory, dear, I was in the back sorting stock, not in another country. Of course, I heard it." She narrowed her eyes. "Government documents? Security breaches? Mycroft Holmes storming in here at seven bloody A.M. instead of his usual four?"

Greg let out a long breath and leaned against the counter. "It's… complicated."

Cat scoffed. "Oh, you don't say? And here I was thinking it sounded perfectly normal for a shop owner to get involved in top-secret affairs."

Greg winced. "Look, I didn't mean to get involved, alright? He left something behind, and-"

Cat held up a hand. "Wait. He left it behind? As in, by accident?"

Greg nodded.

Cat blinked. Then, to his complete surprise, she let out a wheezing laugh.

Greg frowned. "Why are you laughing?"

"Because," Cat wiped at her eyes, still chuckling, "that man, the one who orders his tea down to the second, the one who never even smudges his pastry crumbs, forgot something that important? Oh, that's rich."

Greg smirked despite himself. "Yeah, well, trust me, he wasn't thrilled about it either."

Cat took a deep breath, then fixed him with a much more serious stare. "Greg, dear, I know you're curious, I know you like to poke at things just to see what happens, but this? This is different."

Greg's jaw tensed. "I know."

"Do you?" Cat challenged. "Because from what I heard, you were pressing him for answers."

Greg sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Cat, his name was on the damn document. Something about a security breach. I'm not just gonna pretend I didn't see it."

Cat exhaled slowly, her expression softening just a bit.

"I get that," she said. "But Greg, you're a bookshop owner, not a detective - not anymore. Whatever this is, it's not your problem."

Greg looked away for a moment, his fingers drumming against the counter. "Yeah," he muttered. "That's what he said too."

Cat studied him for a long moment. "And yet, you're still thinking about it."

Greg let out a frustrated chuckle. "Of course, I bloody am. Mycroft Holmes isn't exactly an easy person to ignore."

Cat smirked. "Ah, so we're back to that, then?"

Greg groaned. "Cat."

She patted his arm. "Just saying, dear. If you weren't interested before, you sure as hell are now."

Greg shook his head, but didn't argue. Because, deep down, he knew she wasn't wrong.

Despite everything - the early morning visit, the tense conversation, the fact that Mycroft had literally said 'I'll be in touch' - Greg still found himself glancing at the clock as the afternoon wore on.

4 PM came. And went. No sign of Mycroft.

Greg tried to brush it off. Of course he wasn't coming. Mycroft Holmes wasn't the type to deviate from his schedule unless absolutely necessary, and he'd already done that once today.

Still, Greg couldn't help but feel a little unsettled.

It wasn't just about the damn document. It was the way Mycroft had looked this morning. Sharp as ever, sure, but underneath it? There was something else. A weight. A tension.

Something wasn't right.

Greg distracted himself with work, wiping down tables, reorganizing shelves that didn't need reorganizing, making himself a third cup of coffee he didn't actually need.

By 6 PM, he finally admitted it - he was worried.

And that? That was a problem.

Because Greg didn't do this. He didn't wait around, wondering about someone else's next move. But Mycroft Holmes had a way of getting into his head.

Greg sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe Cat was right.

Maybe he was getting too involved. And yet, as he locked up for the night, flipping the sign to CLOSED, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

And for the first time since meeting Mycroft Holmes, Greg feared when – if - he'd ever see him again.

And that fear justified itself even more since Mycroft didn't return at all. Not the next day. Not the day after. Not even by the end of the week.

Greg tried to act like he wasn't paying attention. Like he wasn't checking the door at 4 PM every day out of habit. Like he wasn't keeping Mycroft's usual seat open, just in case.

But after two weeks with no sign of Mycroft, Greg had to admit it - whatever had been growing between them, whatever routine they'd built, was gone.

And it was probably his fault.

Maybe he'd pushed too hard. Asked too many questions. Maybe Mycroft had decided that allowing himself any kind of familiarity here had been a mistake.

Greg tried to convince himself that it didn't matter.

So what? Mycroft Holmes was just a customer. A strange, brilliant, frustrating one, but still just a customer.

Right?

But the fact that Greg kept thinking about it, about him, told him otherwise.

It got bad enough that he actually considered texting Mycroft. He still had the contact card Mycroft had given him that morning, tucked neatly inside his wallet.

And yet, every time he pulled out his phone, his fingers hovered over the screen, unsure of what to type.

What was he supposed to say?

"Hey, you alright?" - Too casual.

"So, am I officially on some kind of blacklist now?" - Too bitter.

"Did I actually scare you off, or is this just you ghosting me in the most dramatic way possible?" - Way too much.

Greg groaned, dropping his phone onto the counter. This was ridiculous. He wasn't the type to chase after people, especially not people who clearly wanted distance.

The bell above the door jingled, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Oi, Lestrade!"

Greg looked up to see Matt, one of his uni mates, striding into the shop with his usual easy grin and a leather jacket that had seen better days.

Greg forced a smirk, pushing his phone aside. "Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence. Thought you'd forgotten where this place was."

Matt rolled his eyes as he leaned against the counter. "Yeah, yeah, I've been busy. Unlike some people, I don't own a cozy little bookshop where I get to chat up posh blokes for a living."

Greg sighed. "Yeah, well, there is more to owning a shop than just that you know?."

Matt's grin faltered as he narrowed his eyes. "Wait. What's with the long face?"

Greg sighed, wiping a hand down his face. "It's nothing."

Matt gave him a look. "Mate. We've known each other long enough for me to tell when you're brooding over something. So spill. Woman troubles? Man troubles?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Mysterious tea-drinking government worker troubles?"

Greg rolled his eyes hard enough to give himself a headache. "I hate you."

Matt smirked. "No, you don't. Now, tell Uncle Matt what's wrong."

Greg huffed, leaning against the counter. "It's just…"

Matt's eyes lit up immediately. "Oh-ho. So it is mysterious tea-drinking government worker troubles?"

Greg groaned. "Why do I tell you things?"

"Because you secretly love the abuse," Matt said, settling into a chair. "So? What about him?"

Greg sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "He… stopped coming."

Matt's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, really? Just like that?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. It's been two weeks. Nothing. And I don't know if it's 'cause I pushed too hard, or if something actually happened."

Matt tilted his head. "Pushed how?"

Greg hesitated, then sighed. "He left something behind. Something… official. And I saw his name on it. And I might have asked him what the hell was going on."

Matt stared at him for a moment. Then, with absolutely no shame, he whistled. "Mate, you really don't do things by halves, do you?"

Greg shrugged. "It's what I do."

Matt leaned forward. "So, what's the plan? You gonna track him down? Turn up at some shady government office and demand answers?"

Greg let out a dry laugh. "Yeah, that seems like a great way to get put on some kind of watchlist."

Matt smirked. "You're probably on one already, mate."

Greg sighed, glancing at his phone again. The number was right there. He could just… text. Ask.

But what if he didn't want to be found?

Matt watched him carefully, "Alright, mate, here's what we're gonna do."

Greg raised an eyebrow, already suspicious of the tone. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"

Matt grinned. "You need to get this posh git out of your head before you start writing poetry about his perfect tea-steeping techniques. So, we're going out."

Greg groaned. "Matt-"

"Nope. No excuses." Matt held up a finger. "You, me, and whoever else we can drag along. We're hitting that queer club we used to go to back in the day. You remember? Loud music, bad decisions, great cocktails?"

Greg snorted despite himself. "You mean the place where you nearly got thrown out for trying to impress a bartender by jumping onto the bar?"

Matt grinned. "Details, details. Point is, we're going. You need a distraction, and I need to make sure you don't turn into some tragic, lonely shop owner pining after a man who probably sleeps in a three-piece suit."

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm not pining."

Matt gave him a long, knowing look.

Greg sighed, rubbing his temple. "You're not gonna let this go, are you?"

Matt smirked. "Nope. Now, go get your best shirt, because tonight? You're getting that man out of your head."

Greg hesitated for half a second before exhaling heavily. "Fine," he muttered. "But if you get us kicked out again, I'm telling your mum."

Matt grinned, victorious. "Deal."

The Neon Fox was exactly the kind of place Greg needed to lose himself for a while.

Tucked away in Soho, it was one of those perfectly chaotic queer clubs. Sleek and modern, but still with enough grit to feel authentic. The neon-lit fox emblem above the entrance flickered slightly, a familiar sight from Greg's uni days.

Inside, the place was alive with colour and energy, a dimly lit lounge near the front for drinks and conversation, but beyond that? Pulsing music, a packed dance floor, and a long bar lined with people looking for a good time.

It had been a while since Greg had been here. Too long, maybe.

"Alright, first round's on me!" Matt clapped a hand on Greg's shoulder, grinning as they approached the bar.

Greg chuckled. "You're being unusually generous."

Matt smirked. "Mate, I dragged you out of your bookshop. The least I can do is buy you a drink. Besides, I'm feeling lucky tonight."

Greg rolled his eyes. "You always say that before embarrassing yourself."

Matt laughed, flagging down the bartender. "Two whiskey sours!"

Greg leaned against the bar, letting the music wash over him. This was exactly what he needed. A few drinks. Some mindless fun. A night where Mycroft Holmes didn't exist.

At least, that was the plan.

And yet, as Greg glanced around the room, drink in hand, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was still waiting for something - or someone.

At first, Greg had been hesitant - not quite able to let go of the thoughts lingering in the back of his mind. But a couple of whiskey sours in, and the bass-heavy rhythm of the music pounding through his chest, he finally started to loosen up.

The Neon Fox was alive - flashing lights, sweaty bodies moving in sync, laughter and flirtation blending with the beat. It was exactly the kind of energy Greg had been missing.

Matt, of course, had already charmed his way into a dance with some guy in a leather jacket, leaving Greg to fend for himself on the dance floor.

And, to his own surprise he didn't mind.

It had been too long since he'd done this. Since he'd let himself get lost in the music, in the moment, in the warmth of bodies moving around him.

Someone slid in close. A stranger, tall, dark-haired, an easy smile on his lips. He leaned in, voice just audible over the music.

"First time here?"

Greg grinned. "Hardly."

The guy smirked. "Good. Then you know how this works."

Greg didn't need an explanation. He let himself sink into it.

The casual closeness, the heat of the room, the simple, mindless enjoyment of the moment. He let himself move, let himself get wrapped up in the thrill of the night, because that was the whole point of coming here.

To forget. To distract himself. To stop thinking about a certain auburn-haired, tea-obsessed government man who hadn't set foot in his shop for two weeks.

And for a while - it worked.

The tall man kissed his neck, holding Greg close, making his excitement obvious.

Greg exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as the warmth of the stranger's lips ghosted over his skin.

It had been a long time since he'd let himself just be here, in the moment, letting go.

The man's hands were firm, pulling Greg closer as they swayed to the music, the heavy bass thrumming in Greg's chest almost in sync with the quickening of his pulse.

"You're tense," the man murmured against his ear, his breath warm. "You should relax."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "That obvious?"

The man smirked, pressing another slow, teasing kiss to Greg's jaw. "Let me help with that."

And for a second Greg let himself sink into it. Let himself enjoy the touch, the heat, the sheer distraction of it all.

But then it hit him.

This wasn't what he wanted. Not really.

Because no matter how good this was, his mind was somewhere else. With someone else.

Greg exhaled, pulling back slightly. "Sorry, mate. I-"

The man frowned slightly, but he wasn't rude about it, just nodded and took the rejection for what it was.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, sighing. What the hell was wrong with him?

He was supposed to be forgetting Mycroft Holmes tonight.

But here he was, in a club full of people, with a perfectly good distraction in his arms, and still he couldn't stop thinking about him.

His heart was still pounding, but not from the music anymore. Not from the drink. Not from the stranger who had been pressing against him moments ago.

Greg needed air and a bloody cigarette.

He scanned the club, eyes searching for Matt - his usual supplier of terrible life choices - but as he looked through the flashing lights and shifting bodies, his gaze froze.

Because for half a second, through the haze of neon and dim club lighting he could swear he saw him.

Auburn hair. Tall frame. Sharp, deliberate posture that stood out in a place like this.

Greg's breath hitched.

No.

No way.

He blinked, shaking his head, looking again, but the man was gone. Swallowed up by the crowd, lost in the shifting figures on the dance floor.

Greg's stomach twisted.

It couldn't be.

It wouldn't be.

Because Mycroft Holmes didn't do nightclubs. Didn't do places like this. Didn't do chaos, noise, or messy, impulsive decisions.

Or did he?

Greg couldn't shake the feeling that he'd really seen him. That Mycroft had been watching. That he had been here and then disappeared before Greg could be sure.

Greg exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

He needed that cigarette now more than ever.

Greg spotted Matt near the center of the dance floor, sandwiched between two blokes, both of whom looked like they were having the time of their lives.

Matt, of course, looked thrilled - laughing, drink in hand, body moving with zero shame and zero restraint.

Greg shook his head fondly as he pushed through the crowd, tapping Matt on the shoulder.

Matt turned, grinning widely. "Greg! You finally decided to join the fun?"

Greg snorted. "Not exactly. Need a cigarette."

Matt raised an eyebrow, already fishing a pack from his jacket pocket. "You? Thought you only bummed one off me when you were on the verge of a crisis."

Greg gave him a pointed look.

Matt laughed, shoving the cigarette pack into Greg's hand. "Well, in that case, take two."

Greg rolled his eyes, tucking one between his lips as he patted Matt's shoulder. "I'll be outside for a bit."

Matt shot him a knowing smirk. "Take your time, mate. Just don't go staring dramatically into the night, yeah?"

Greg exhaled through his nose. "No promises."

And with that, he turned and made his way toward the exit, his mind still buzzing with one singular, nagging thought - had he really seen Mycroft Holmes?

Or was he losing his damn mind?

Stepping outside, he let the heavy bass of the club fade behind him, replaced by the muffled sounds of late-night London. The November night air was crisp and sharp, a stark contrast to the heat and closeness inside.

Greg sighed, rolling his shoulders, the chill creeping under his shirt, but he welcomed it. It was exactly what he needed. Something to pull him out of his own head, to clear the buzz in his mind that had nothing to do with the drinks he'd had.

Flicking his lighter, he brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. The burn in his lungs was familiar, grounding.

But it did nothing to stop the nagging thought pressing at the back of his mind.

Had that been Mycroft?

He knew it was stupid to even consider. Mycroft wasn't the type to step foot in a place like this. A jazz bar, maybe. A private lounge with overpriced whiskey and a no-nonsense bartender? Sure.

But a packed queer nightclub in the middle of Soho?

It made no sense.

And yet Greg had been so sure.

He took another drag, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl into the night air.

Maybe it had just been his mind playing tricks on him. Or maybe - maybe Mycroft Holmes had been there. Watching. And then leaving before Greg could confirm it.

That thought sat uncomfortably in Greg's chest.

His thoughts were interrupted by Matt, who joined him for his second cigarette, bringing them each a drink as well.

"Figured you might need another," Matt said, handing Greg a glass before lighting up his own cigarette.

Greg huffed a small laugh, taking the drink. "Thought you were too busy dancing your way into a bad decision."

Matt smirked, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Nah, taking a breather. Besides, you looked like you were about to start narrating your own tragic noir film out here."

Greg rolled his eyes, taking a slow sip of whatever Matt had brought him. It was whiskey, neat. A good choice.

Matt leaned back against the brick wall, watching Greg carefully. "Alright, mate. Spill it. You've been weird all night."

Greg let out a long sigh, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. "Just… thought I saw someone in there."

Matt arched a brow. "Just someone, or a certain someone?"

Greg hesitated. "Could've sworn it was Mycroft."

Matt nearly choked on his drink. "I'm sorry. Your Mycroft? Here?"

Greg groaned. "He's not 'my' Mycroft."

Matt snorted, shaking his head. "Right, right. Just your highly specific, deeply irritating, disappears-for-two-weeks mystery man."

Greg ignored the jab and took another drag of his cigarette. "I only caught a glimpse. Could've been someone else."

Matt studied him. "But you don't think it was."

Greg exhaled, looking at the London streets stretching beyond them, slick with rain, neon reflections shimmering in the puddles.

"No," he admitted. "I don't."

Matt took a slow sip of his whiskey, then smirked. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

Greg sighed again, running a hand through his hair. "What can I do? If it was him, he's already gone."

Matt nudged his shoulder. "Or he's still watching."

Greg stiffened slightly, glancing around before scoffing. "Now you're just trying to mess with me."

Matt grinned, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot. "I don't have to, mate. You're already in your own head about it."

Greg shook his head, knocking back the rest of his drink. "Yeah, well, I'd rather not be."

Matt smirked, tilting his head toward the club entrance. "Then I've got a plan for you."

Greg gave him a wary look. "That so?"

Matt nodded. "You go back in there, find a couple of blokes, flirt your arse off, dance like you're not thinking about him and if he's really here?" Matt's smirk deepened. "He'll show."

Greg snorted. "Right, and what makes you so sure of that?"

Matt shrugged, taking a casual sip of his drink. "Because posh blokes like him? They're used to getting what they want. And if he wants you, even a little, he's not gonna like watching you give your attention to someone else."

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "That's your master plan?"

"Got a better one?" Matt shot back, raising an eyebrow.

Greg hesitated. Because, honestly? He didn't. So, with a final drag of his cigarette, he flicked it into the ashtray and rolled his shoulders.

"Fine," he muttered. "But if this backfires, I'm blaming you."

Matt grinned, clapping him on the back. "That's the spirit! Now, go make someone jealous."

Greg exhaled, squared his shoulders, and headed back inside. And if his heart was beating just a little faster at the thought of Mycroft Holmes actually watching?

Well that was something he wasn't ready to admit just yet.

Chapter Text

Greg went back inside and did what Matt suggested.

The heat of the club hit him as soon as he stepped back in - flashing neon lights, bodies moving to the heavy bass, the familiar pulse of a night in full swing.

Greg rolled his shoulders, shaking off the tension that had settled in his chest outside. This was just a bit of fun. A distraction. And if Matt's theory was right? Well he'd find out soon enough.

So, he did exactly what he was supposed to.

He grabbed another drink at the bar. Something strong enough to help him loosen up properly and then, he found a guy.

And another.

Flirted like it was second nature.

Let himself laugh a little too freely, let his hands linger on shoulders and arms, let the music pull him into the easy rhythm of casual, fleeting attention.

One guy - blonde hair, blue eyes, sharp jawline but nowhere near as sharp as the man he was trying to forget - pressed in close, lips grazing Greg's ear.

"You here with someone?"

Greg grinned, keeping it light, playful. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The guy smirked, fingers trailing over Greg's wrist, a clear invitation.

And for a moment, Greg let himself sink into it. Let himself enjoy the moment for what it was.

But as he tilted his head back, letting the stranger's lips ghost over his jaw, his gaze flickered toward the bar.

And there he was.

Mycroft Holmes.

Standing next to the bar, half-hidden in the shadows, watching.

Greg's breath hitched.

Because Matt had been right. Posh blokes weren't used to competition. And if the look in Mycroft's stormy blue-grey eyes meant anything at all - he wasn't liking what he was seeing.

Greg took in Mycroft's appearance. And for the first time, he saw him without the Armor.

No three-piece suit. No impeccably pressed vest.

Just a button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal sharp forearms, the fabric slightly undone at the collar, like he'd actually allowed himself to breathe for once.

And those black trousers? Well, they fit him perfectly.

Greg had never seen him like this. Casual. Relaxed or at least, as relaxed as Mycroft Holmes could ever be.

And yet, despite the lack of his usual polished, put-together attire, Mycroft still held himself with the same calculated presence.

Because while his clothes were different, his expression wasn't. That sharp, piercing gaze was locked onto Greg, dark and unreadable.

He wasn't dancing. He wasn't mingling. Just standing at the bar, sipping his drink, watching Greg like a bloody hawk.

Greg's pulse kicked up. Because Mycroft didn't look bored. Didn't look apathetic or indifferent. No, he looked possessive.

Greg felt the weight of that stare, heat curling down his spine, spreading across his skin like an electric charge.

The guy in front of him - the one Greg had been using as a distraction - was talking, touching, waiting for a response.

But Greg wasn't listening anymore. Because all he could hear was the unspoken challenge in Mycroft Holmes' eyes.

And now?

Now, he wanted to see just how far he could push him.

Greg shut the other guy up by kissing him hungrily.

The guy was attractive, strong hands gripping Greg's hips, pressing in close, his lips warm and insistent. The music pulsed around them, bass thrumming through the floor, bodies moving in sync.

Greg let the kiss be deep, slow, just enough to sell the moment.

But his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Because while this guy was pulling him in, Greg's attention was elsewhere.

Greg could feel Mycroft's gaze on him, could almost taste the tension in the air from across the room.

And when Greg finally cracked an eye open, just for a second, he saw it - Mycroft hadn't looked away. Not once. Still standing at the bar, drink in hand, his jaw tight, his fingers wrapped a little too firmly around the glass.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes - ohh, they said plenty.

Something dark. Something heated. Something that made Greg's spine tingle, his pulse kick up another notch.

Greg pulled back from the kiss, just enough to glance back toward the bar.

And that was when he saw it. Mycroft downed the rest of his drink in one slow, deliberate motion. Then, without breaking eye contact, he set the glass down, turned on his heel, and walked toward the exit.

Greg's breath hitched.

Because Mycroft wasn't storming out in a huff. Wasn't fleeing, wasn't avoiding. No Mycroft was leaving with purpose. Deliberate. Measured. Like he was waiting for Greg to follow.

Greg swallowed, his heart thudding in his chest.

This was a challenge.

And Greg was going to take it.

He barely spared the guy in front of him a second thought as he pulled away, muttering something half-apologetic before stepping back into the crowd.

His eyes were fixed on the exit, on the space where Mycroft had just disappeared, and every nerve in Greg's body was buzzing with something sharp, electric, undeniable.

This wasn't just a game anymore.

Mycroft had left deliberately.

And he wanted Greg to follow.

Greg pushed through the dance floor, weaving through the writhing bodies, the flashing lights suddenly too much, too loud. His pulse drummed against his ribs, anticipation clawing its way up his spine.

When he finally burst through the doors into the cold night air, he scanned the street, his breath coming in short puffs of steam against the late November chill.

And then - there. A few steps away, standing near the alley beside the club, was Mycroft Holmes, already wrapped in his coat.

He wasn't looking at Greg - not at first. His hands were in his pockets, his posture impossibly composed, but there was a tension to it, a coiled restraint that Greg could practically feel in the air between them.

Greg took a slow step forward. "You always leave without saying goodbye?" he called out.

Mycroft finally turned and the look in his eyes - Greg felt that all the way down to his bones.

Something burned behind those sharp blue-grey irises. Something that wasn't quite anger, wasn't quite jealousy, but it was territorial all the same.

Greg felt heat creep up his neck, the weight of that stare pinning him in place. He smirked, trying to mask the way his heart was hammering. "So? You gonna tell me what that was about, or am I supposed to guess?"

Mycroft took a measured step closer. "You think I don't know what you were doing in there?" His voice was low, smooth, but there was an edge to it.

Greg's smirk widened. "Didn't seem to bother you much. You barely reacted."

Mycroft's eyes flickered with something dark. "Did I?"

Greg's breath hitched.

Because now Mycroft was close enough that Greg could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the way his fingers tensed in his pockets.

Like he was holding something back.

Greg tilted his head, pushing his luck. "So? is creeping after me in a nightclub our new 4 PM arrangement, or is this just a special occasion?"

The air between them was thick, charged with something Greg wasn't sure either of them was ready to name.

Mycroft didn't rise to the bait immediately - didn't scoff, didn't roll his eyes, didn't even let out one of those exasperated sighs he was so damn good at.

Instead, he simply held Greg's gaze, the neon lights from the club flickering across his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones, casting shadows in his unreadable expression.

"Would you prefer I make an appointment?" Mycroft murmured, voice low and even, but there was something taunting beneath it.

Greg felt heat creep up his spine.

Jesus.

He let out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. "An appointment, huh? Should I have my people call your people? Pencil me in between classified meetings and tea breaks?"

Mycroft's lips twitched, and Greg knew he was enjoying this.

And Greg was enjoying this even more.

"You're awfully confident," Mycroft mused, his voice calm, composed, but edged with something Greg couldn't quite place.

Greg took a slow step closer, their bodies almost touching. "You're awfully present for someone who disappeared for two weeks."

Mycroft didn't flinch. Didn't move. But his fingers curled slightly at his sides, and Greg saw it, that tiny break in his perfect composure.

Mycroft wet his lips, just slightly, before replying, "I had business to attend to."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Right. And that business just so happened to bring you here? To the exact club I'm in?"

A pause.

Then, finally, Mycroft exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "I was… curious."

Greg's stomach tightened.

Curious. That was one way to put it.

Greg let the moment stretch, his eyes flickering over Mycroft's face, searching for cracks in that impossibly well-crafted mask.

"Curious about what?" he asked, voice quieter now, throat suddenly dry.

Mycroft's answer was quieter still. "You."

Greg's breath hitched. This was uncharted territory. The flirting, the banter that had been easy. That had been a game.

But this?

This was Mycroft Holmes standing in front of him, watching him like he was something worth figuring out.

And Greg didn't know what to do with that. So, he did the only thing that felt natural. He smirked, covering up the way his heart was hammering against his ribs.

"Well," he murmured, stepping even closer, "I hope you found what you were looking for."

"I believe I have." Mycroft responded.

Greg felt his breath hitch, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he kept his smirk firmly in place, tilting his head. "That so? And what exactly do you plan on doing with that information?"

Mycroft studied him for a moment, his gaze unwavering, calculating but not cold.

Then, with perfect composure, he said, "I'll meet you tomorrow. After you close the shop."

Greg blinked, "What, just like that?"

Mycroft's lips twitched slightly, as if amused by Greg's surprise. "Yes. Just like that."

Greg narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "You're not gonna tell me what this is about, are you?"

"No," Mycroft said simply.

Greg huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "You really are impossible, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Greg opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, Mycroft stepped back, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Tomorrow, Greg. After you lock up." His voice was steady, deliberate, final.

And then, without waiting for a response, Mycroft turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing into the London night as if he had never been there at all.

Greg stood frozen in place, staring after him, trying to wrap his head around what the hell had just happened.

Tomorrow.

After he closed the shop.

Greg's stomach twisted - not with dread, not with uncertainty - but with something far more dangerous.

Anticipation.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before turning back toward the club.

His mind was still buzzing, trying to process the absolute madness of what had just happened.

He'd come here to get Mycroft out of his head.

Instead, Mycroft had shown up, watched him, and then told him to meet him after closing tomorrow like it was a bloody appointment.

Greg let out a half-disbelieving laugh as he pushed through the club doors, stepping back into the warmth and noise.

Matt was exactly where Greg expected him to be.

Still at the bar, looking pleased with himself, nursing another drink and chatting up a guy who looked just as into it as he was.

Greg walked up behind him, nudging his shoulder. "Oi, Matt."

Matt turned, grinning immediately. "Well, well, look who's back. And did my plan work? Did Mycroft show up?"

Greg leaned against the bar, shaking his head with a disbelieving chuckle. "You're never gonna believe this."

Matt raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Try me."

Greg smirked. "Your stupid plan did actually work."

Matt blinked, then grinned like Christmas had come early. "Wait! Hold on. Are you telling me Mr. Uptight-Tea-Order actually followed you?"

Greg took Matt's drink and downed a sip, because why the hell not at this point? "Not only did he follow me," he said, setting the glass down, "he's meeting me tomorrow. After I close the shop."

Matt stared at him for a solid five seconds.

Then he slapped the bar and let out a loud, victorious laugh. "No. Bloody. Way!"

Greg shook his head. "Swear to God. He walked out like it was some MI6-level rendezvous and told me he'd see me after closing."

Matt leaned back, crossing his arms, smirking like the smug bastard he was. "Told you. Posh blokes hate competition. They're used to getting what they want."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, let's just hope what he wants isn't to have me thrown in a government cell for asking too many questions."

Matt chuckled. "Mate, if he was gonna do that, he'd have done it weeks ago. Nah, I think you've got him right where you want him."

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of."

Matt clapped a hand on his back. "Relax! Just enjoy the fact that you got the most controlled man in London to break his routine for you."

Greg let that thought sink in.

Because, yeah. That was something.

Matt downed the rest of his drink, grinning as he nudged Greg's shoulder. "Well, mate, I'd love to stick around and continue revelling in my own genius, but…"

He tilted his head toward the guy he'd been chatting up with a knowing smirk on his face.

Greg rolled his eyes, already seeing where this was going. "Ah. So, you're abandoning me."

Matt chuckled, unbothered. "Call it an opportunity I can't pass up." He grabbed his coat, throwing it over his shoulders. "You gonna be alright on your own?"

Greg smirked, shaking his head. "I'm a big boy, Matt. I'll survive."

Matt winked. "Good. Try not to spend the whole night overanalyzing your upcoming mystery date."

Greg groaned. "It's not a date."

Matt just laughed, clapping him on the back before heading toward the door. "Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that."

Greg watched him go, sighing as he turned back to the bar, his fingers drumming absently against the counter.

Alone now, with only his own thoughts for company, there was only one thing left to do.

Finish his drink. And figure out what the hell tomorrow was actually going to be.

The next day, Greg had just turned the sign to CLOSED as Mycroft appeared outside the door.

Greg barely had time to process the moment before the bell above the door chimed, and there he was—Mycroft Holmes, standing in the entrance of Novel Grounds as if he'd planned it down to the second.

Greg let out a slow breath, turning to face him fully. "Right on cue," he muttered, locking the door behind him.

Mycroft, as always, was composed, unreadable, but there was something in his eyes - sharp, deliberate, assessing.

"You sound surprised," Mycroft said smoothly.

Greg smirked, tossing the keys onto the counter. "Not surprised. Just… curious. Figured maybe you'd keep me waiting, just to make a point."

Mycroft took a step inside, glancing briefly around the now empty shop, as if assessing the space before responding.

"That would have been unnecessary," he finally said.

Greg huffed a small laugh, shaking his head as he walked behind the counter. "Well, you're here now, so might as well make yourself comfortable."

He grabbed the mop and bucket from the storage room, rolling his shoulders as he prepared to clean up for the night.

"If you want a tea, help yourself," he added casually. "I'm assuming you know your own brewing instructions by now."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "I see we've reached the stage of familiarity where I'm expected to serve myself."

Greg smirked, dipping the mop into the bucket. "Mate, I've been making your tea for months. It's only fair you return the favour once in a while."

Mycroft huffed quietly, but Greg wasn't sure if it was amusement or mild offense. Either way, he watched as Mycroft removed his coat and scarf, draping them neatly over a chair before making his way behind the counter.

Greg stole a glance, watching as Mycroft reached for the tea tins with quick, precise movements, measuring out the exact amount as if he were handling a classified operation instead of a cup of Earl Grey.

It was strangely domestic, the sight of Mycroft standing in Greg's shop, preparing his own tea while Greg mopped the floor like it was just another evening at Novel Grounds.

Greg shook his head to himself, focusing back on his task.

Once he had finished a few rows, he leaned on the mop handle, watching as Mycroft took his first sip of tea with the same practiced care as always.

"Alright, then," Greg said, resting an arm on the mop. "We're both here. So, are you finally gonna tell me what the hell is going on?"

Mycroft lowered his teacup, exhaling softly as he considered Greg's question. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the porcelain.

Greg had seen that look before - the one Mycroft got when he was deciding just how much to say.

Greg rolled his eyes, setting the mop aside. "Oh, come on, don't give me that 'how much does he need to know' silence. You wouldn't be here if you didn't plan on telling me something."

Mycroft's lips twitched slightly, but his gaze remained steady. "Very well."

He set his cup down with deliberate precision, then clasped his hands together on the counter.

"You recall the document you found."

Greg's stomach tightened. "Kind of hard to forget."

Mycroft nodded. "Then you are already aware of the ongoing… security concerns within certain government sectors."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. The bit where your name was on it stuck out too."

Mycroft hummed. "Yes, well. That was unfortunate."

Greg scoffed. "Unfortunate? Right. Because nothing says 'normal government business' like being flagged for additional monitoring."

Mycroft sighed, reaching for his tea again. "I assure you, I am not under suspicion. But there is a situation I am closely involved in. One that extends beyond standard security protocol."

Greg frowned. "You're investigating someone."

A pause. Then he replied, "Yes."

Greg's fingers drummed absently against the counter, his mind turning. "Alright. So that means someone's breached something big. What, foreign intelligence? Internal corruption?"

Mycroft hesitated, just for a fraction of a second.

And that was enough to make Greg's stomach twist.

It wasn't just a simple case. It was serious.

Greg exhaled, leaning forward slightly. "Why are you telling me this?"

Mycroft's eyes flickered over him, assessing.

"Because, Greg," Mycroft said, his voice smooth, controlled, but quieter now, "whether I intended it or not… you are already involved."

Greg felt a prickle of unease. "Involved how, exactly?"

Mycroft lifted his teacup again, taking a slow sip, as if deciding whether or not he wanted to say the next part aloud.

Then, with unnerving calm, he said, "Because I believe whoever I am investigating… has been watching me."

Greg's chest went tight.

Shit.

"Watching you?" Greg repeated, voice dropping lower. "You mean, like… following you?"

"That is one possibility," Mycroft admitted, setting down his tea again. "But I suspect it is more sophisticated than that. There have been… irregularities. Subtle inconsistencies. Not enough to raise immediate alarms, but enough to be of concern."

Greg swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "And what does that have to do with me?"

Mycroft's gaze was unwavering.

"Because," he said, "for the past several months, I have maintained a highly structured routine. And one of the few places I frequented… was here."

Greg's stomach dropped. And suddenly, he understood.

"You think they've been watching Novel Grounds," he murmured.

Mycroft's silence was answer enough.

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Mycroft. Are you telling me I've been playing barista for a bloody government conspiracy?"

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, his expression bored but tinged with something dangerously close to amusement. "Hardly. But it is possible that in coming here, I have inadvertently drawn attention to you."

Greg leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "And you thought I'd just take that well?"

"No," Mycroft admitted, "but I thought you'd rather hear it from me than discover it the hard way."

Greg let out a breath, trying to ignore the way his skin prickled. "So, what? You're here to warn me? Or are you here to keep an eye on me?"

Mycroft's lips pressed together, his fingers twitching slightly before he stilled them.

And then he said, "Both."

Greg's heart skipped a beat. He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. "Bloody hell."

Mycroft watched him carefully, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable.

"You are taking this better than I anticipated," Mycroft observed.

Greg let out a dry laugh. "Well, I'm currently debating whether I should be flattered or terrified that I've apparently become a footnote in a government security crisis."

"Footnote is an overstatement," Mycroft replied, taking another measured sip of tea. "You are… an outlier. An unexpected variable in an otherwise controlled environment."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "That's your way of saying I'm a complication, isn't it?"

Mycroft smirked slightly, but didn't answer.

Greg let that settle for a moment, then shook his head. "Alright. So what's the play here, Holmes? What do you need me to do?"

Mycroft set his tea down gently, exhaling through his nose. "I need you to be aware. To watch for anything unusual. Conversations that don't feel quite right, customers who seem too interested in me. If something feels off, you tell me immediately."

Greg frowned, his arms crossing over his chest. "And what happens if someone is watching this place? What do you do then?"

Mycroft's gaze darkened slightly. "Then I will handle it."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "You keep saying that like it's supposed to make me feel better."

"It should," Mycroft said simply.

Greg let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "You're bloody impossible, you know that?"

"So I've been told," Mycroft replied, completely unfazed.

Greg chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Jesus. Alright, fine. I'll keep an eye out. But if this gets me dragged into something I can't walk away from, I swear to God, Mycroft, I'm charging you rent for that corner seat of yours."

For the first time all night, Mycroft actually smirked. "I'll take that under advisement."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Now, finish your tea so I can clean up and pretend my life is still somewhat normal for at least a few more hours."

Mycroft lifted his cup in a silent toast, but Greg caught it - the brief flicker of something in his expression.

Something that said this was far from over. And Greg wasn't sure he wanted it to be.

Mycroft stirred his tea slowly, watching Greg with that familiar piercing gaze - the kind that made Greg feel like he was being examined under a microscope.

Greg sighed, leaning back against the counter. "Alright, I know that look. Whatever's running through that overclocked brain of yours, just spit it out."

Mycroft lifted his brows slightly. "Am I not allowed to simply observe?"

Greg snorted. "Not when you look like you're working out my entire life story just by watching me mop the floor."

Mycroft took one last sip of his tea, setting the cup down with deliberate precision. "Very well."

He tilted his head, studying Greg a moment longer, then said,

"You didn't sleep well last night. Likely due to overthinking this meeting. You hesitated before locking the door just now, which tells me you briefly considered whether letting me in was the right decision. You've had at least two cups of coffee since morning, but not much food. Your movements are sharp, restless, but not sluggish. And…"

Mycroft's gaze flickered briefly over Greg's frame, before settling back on his face.

"…you spent an excessive amount of time deciding what to wear tonight."

Greg blinked and then scoffed. "Oh, come on. That's ridiculous."

Mycroft lifted a single brow. "Is it?"

Greg gestured at himself. "I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt. You think I put deep thought into that?"

"Yes," Mycroft said simply. "Because the last time I was here, you were in your usual work clothes - casual, but practical. Tonight, you're not in work mode, and yet you still chose something deliberately effortless."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, deliberately effortless. That's not a contradiction at all."

Mycroft smirked slightly, ignoring him. "Your hair is also different. Less like you ran your hands through it in frustration, more like you actually looked in the mirror for once."

Greg felt heat creep up his neck.

This smug bastard.

"Alright, fine. Maybe I put a little effort in." He huffed. "Doesn't mean it was because of you."

Mycroft made a low, amused hum. "Of course not."

Greg folded his arms. "Anything else, genius?"

"Yes." Mycroft's gaze narrowed slightly, "You enjoyed making me jealous last night."

Greg froze. His stomach flipped, and for the first time, he wasn't sure what to say.

Because Mycroft was right. He had enjoyed it. Maybe too much.

Greg opened his mouth to argue - to throw something sarcastic back at him, but Mycroft leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice.

"You wanted to see how far I'd let you push me," he murmured. "You wanted to see if I would react."

Greg's heart hammered.

Because Mycroft had just called his bluff.

And now, Greg was the one being tested.

The air between them thickened, heavy with something Greg couldn't quite name, but it was there, pulsing, electric, like a taut rope pulled just to the brink of snapping.

Mycroft hadn't moved much - just the slightest lean forward, just enough to throw Greg completely off balance. His gaze was steady, calm, but there was something else there now.

Something dangerous.

Greg swallowed, forcing himself to smirk. "Well, can you blame me?" he said, voice lighter than he actually felt. "You act all cool and composed, but turns out, you do have a breaking point."

Mycroft's lips curved slightly, the kind of infuriating half-smile that made Greg want to wipe it off his face - preferably with his own mouth.

"You assume I broke," Mycroft said smoothly.

Greg scoffed. "You followed me to a club and spent the night watching me. If that's not 'breaking,' I don't know what is."

Mycroft hummed, tapping a single finger against the counter. "Or perhaps," he said, tilting his head slightly, "I simply wanted to see what you would do next."

Greg's stomach flipped. He licked his lips, shifting his weight slightly. "You enjoy watching people squirm, don't you?"

Mycroft's smirk deepened, just slightly. "Only when they make it interesting."

Greg let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. This was insane.

But he wasn't walking away. Because Mycroft was still here. Still watching him. Still waiting.

Greg exhaled sharply, tilting his head. "Alright, then. I'll bite. What exactly happens next, Holmes?"

For the first time, Mycroft paused - just slightly, but it was enough.

And then, with a quiet certainty that sent a shiver down Greg's spine, he said:

"That depends on you, Greg."

Greg's stomach tightened, and not from unease, from something else entirely.

He was used to reading people, teasing reactions out of them, pushing just to see how far he could get. But Mycroft Holmes?

Mycroft had flipped the game on him. Because now, he wasn't the one in control.

Greg let the silence stretch just long enough to feel the weight of it pressing against his chest. Mycroft was still watching him, his gaze measured but intent, waiting - always waiting.

Greg exhaled slowly, his smirk creeping back into place, but this time, it was different. This time, it was real.

"Alright, then," he said, voice steady, but lower now. "If it's up to me…"

He took a step forward, enough to close the space between them, enough to feel the warmth radiating from Mycroft's body.

Enough to test how far Mycroft would let him go.

"You've been following me," Greg murmured, voice deliberately casual, even though his pulse was anything but. "Watching. Waiting. So, what is it, exactly, that you're hoping I'll do?"

Mycroft didn't move. Didn't pull away. Didn't break eye contact.

But Greg saw it - the faint twitch in his fingers, the nearly imperceptible shift in his breath.

Greg's grin widened.

"Got nothing to say now?" he teased, voice low, just a little rough. "Or are you still figuring out how to keep control of this little game?"

Mycroft's eyes darkened.

"This," Mycroft said, his voice so quiet Greg barely caught it, "is not a game."

Greg's breath hitched, because there was no amusement in Mycroft's expression now.

No sarcasm. No carefully placed shields. Just raw, focused intensity.

And Greg had never wanted to close the distance between them more.

But it was Mycroft who stepped back first.

The shift was small, barely noticeable to anyone who didn't know what to look for, but Greg caught it immediately.

The way Mycroft's shoulders straightened just slightly, how his fingers twitched at his sides before he finally moved away, breaking the tension that had wrapped so tightly between them.

Greg didn't stop him. Didn't push. Didn't call him out for it, even though part of him wanted to.

Instead, he just watched as Mycroft gathered his coat, shaking it out with the same careful precision he did everything else.

The silence stretched again, but this time, it felt different.

Not like a challenge. Not like a test.

Something else.

Mycroft smoothed out his sleeves, fastening the buttons on his coat before finally meeting Greg's gaze again. His expression was back to neutral, unreadable, except for the trace of something lingering beneath the surface.

Something Greg wasn't sure he'd imagined. Then, with a nod, Mycroft simply said, "Have a pleasant evening, Greg."

And just like that, he turned and walked out the door.

Greg let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the door long after Mycroft had disappeared down the street.

What the hell was that?

He didn't know. Didn't have a bloody clue.

But one thing was certain - this wasn't over.

Chapter Text

From then on, their routine returned to normal.

Every weekday, at exactly 4 PM, Mycroft Holmes walked through the door of Novel Grounds like nothing had ever happened.

Greg didn't know whether to be relieved or frustrated.

Because after that night in the shop - the tension, the near-moment, the way Mycroft had looked at him before stepping away - Greg had expected something to shift.

Instead Mycroft simply resumed his usual pattern.

Tea. Pastry. Work. Books.

He'd take his seat in the corner, open his laptop, sip his perfectly brewed Earl Grey, and go about his business like he hadn't nearly unravelled something between them.

Greg tried not to let it bother him.

Tried not to read into it.

But sometimes - when Mycroft looked up from his laptop, when their eyes met across the shop, when Greg caught the faintest twitch of a smirk on Mycroft's lips - he wondered.

He wondered if Mycroft was just pretending nothing had changed. Or if he was simply waiting for Greg to be the one to push first.

Either way, 4 PM belonged to them again.

And for now that was enough.

Greg had just finished grinding fresh coffee beans, the warm, familiar scent filling the air, when Cat leaned against the counter with a look that immediately put him on edge.

He sighed, not even turning around. "Alright, just say it. I know you're dying to."

Cat smirked, arms crossed. "Oh, I don't know, dear. Just wondering if we're pretending like a certain posh tea-drinking mystery man didn't just reappear like clockwork after a two-week vanishing act."

Greg rolled his eyes, setting the grinder aside. "Not much to say. He's back. That's it."

Cat let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. "Gregory, you are painfully bad at lying."

Greg turned, raising an eyebrow. "What do you want me to say? He disappeared for a bit, now he's back. Routine's the same as before."

Cat gave him a knowing look. "Is it, though?"

Greg huffed. "Yes. Exactly the same. He shows up at four, orders his tea, sits in the corner, stares at his laptop like it holds the meaning of life. Same as always."

Cat leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Uh-huh. And you're telling me there's absolutely nothing different? No strange tension? No meaningful eye contact over the pastry display?"

Greg grabbed a clean cup, muttering, "I hate you."

Cat laughed. "You love me. And you also love avoiding your feelings, apparently."

Greg groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, he's not talking about it, so why should I?"

Cat arched a brow. "Because, dear, I've seen the way you look at him. And if you think you're fooling anyone by pretending it's just 'business as usual,' you're wrong."

Greg sighed heavily, staring down at the cup in his hands.

Because the thing was, she was right.

Mycroft had come back, but there was something unsaid lingering between them now. And Greg wasn't sure who was going to be the first to break.

Cat studied him for a moment, then patted his cheek lightly. "Well, I'll be here when you decide to stop being a stubborn idiot about it."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Cat. Real helpful."

She winked. "Always, dear."

And with that, she walked off, leaving Greg alone with his thoughts and his unfinished coffee.

The only thing that was new to their routine was that Mycroft now stayed to watch Greg play the guitar. It had started subtly. At first Greg thought it was just a coincidence.

He'd finish wiping down the counter, glance over, and Mycroft would still be there.

Laptop closed. Tea half-forgotten. Eyes on him.

The first time, Greg had raised an eyebrow, smirking as he settled onto the stool with his guitar. "Didn't take you for a live music kind of guy."

Mycroft had just lifted his cup, taking a slow sip before replying, "I'm capable of appreciation."

Greg had chuckled, rolling his eyes. "High praise, coming from you."

But then it kept happening.

Every evening.

Every time Greg picked up his guitar, Mycroft stayed. He didn't say much. Didn't request songs. Just watched.

And that did something to Greg's already tangled thoughts. Because Mycroft Holmes wasn't a man who lingered without reason.

And yet, here he was.

Every evening. Every song. Watching.

Greg tried to pretend like he wasn't thinking about it too much.

But the problem?

He absolutely was.

But Mycroft would always leave before Greg had finished playing the last song.

Every time.

It was so precise, so deliberate, that Greg couldn't even call it a coincidence.

No matter how long he played, no matter how caught up in the music he got, at some point - always just before the final song ended - Mycroft would quietly gather his coat, slip his laptop into his bag, and leave.

No words. No goodbyes.

Just a silent exit, like he'd calculated the exact moment to disappear.

And Greg noticed. Of course he did.

At first, he thought maybe it was just Mycroft being Mycroft. Keeping things structured, never allowing himself to become too much a part of something.

But the more it happened, the more it nagged at Greg. Because Mycroft wasn't just listening. He was staying for it. And yet, he never let himself stay until the very end.

Greg didn't know what that meant.

It was 4 PM, and Mycroft Holmes walked through the door - right on time, as always.

Greg had been waiting for him.

Not obviously, of course. That would have been too much.

But he had the tea ready, knew the exact moment Mycroft would reach the counter, knew the way his fingers would rest against the polished wood while he placed his order in that same deliberate, measured tone.

Greg handed over the cup, but this time, instead of stepping back, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and gave Mycroft a pointed look.

"So," Greg said casually, "are we ever going to talk about the fact that you always leave before my last song is over?"

Mycroft, in the middle of adjusting his gloves, stilled for half a second.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he picked up his tea and took a slow sip. "I wasn't aware it required discussion," Mycroft replied smoothly.

Greg huffed out a laugh. "Oh, come on. You time it. Every night. You sit there, sip your tea, pretend not to be listening. But then, just before the last song's done, you're gone."

Mycroft placed his cup down precisely, carefully, perfectly aligned with the edge of the counter.

"It's simple," he said. "I leave when it is time to leave."

Greg smirked. "And yet, 'time to leave' always happens to be before the last song ends?"

Mycroft's jaw tightened just slightly, a flicker of something in his expression that Greg didn't miss.

"It would appear so," Mycroft admitted.

Greg tilted his head. "Why? What, do you just enjoy being a dramatic bastard? Or is there something else?"

Mycroft sighed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve in that precise, practiced way he always did when he didn't want to answer something directly. "Perhaps I prefer to depart while the performance is still…" he hesitated, before adding, "at its peak."

Greg chuckled. "So, what? You don't want to hear the ending?"

For a brief moment, something flickered in Mycroft's expression. Something too quick to read, but definitely there.

Then, just as smoothly as ever, Mycroft took another sip of his tea and said, "Some things are better left unfinished."

Greg's smirk faded. Because that, that wasn't just about music. And Mycroft knew it, too.

Greg opened his mouth, ready to call him out on it, but Mycroft had already turned away, retreating to his usual seat, leaving Greg standing at the counter, still turning over those words in his head.

Greg wasn't sure if that was a warning or a challenge.

Greg shook himself out of it, exhaling through his nose as he grabbed a box of Christmas decorations from the storage room.

He was not going to let Mycroft Holmes burrow into his head today – or at least he would try.

Instead, he'd focus on something normal - something festive. December was just a few days away after all. So, in the quiet moments between customers, Greg threw himself into putting up the decorations.

He started with the fairy lights, carefully weaving them along the bookshelves and around the shop windows, letting the soft glow bring in a little bit of warmth against the cold outside. He untangled a slightly worse-for-wear garland (probably older than he was), draping it across the front counter, adding a few sprigs of holly here and there for good measure.

It wasn't overly polished or perfect, but it was cozy, inviting - the way Arthur had always liked it.

Greg smiled to himself, adjusting a tiny golden star above the pastry display before stepping back to admire his work.

Yeah. That was better.

His hands might be busy with decorations, but his mind still circling back to Mycroft. Even though he didn't want it to.

Greg let out a huff.

'Some things are better left unfinished'

What the hell was that supposed to mean, anyway? Was it about the music? Was it about them? If there even was a them?

Greg sighed, shaking his head as he grabbed the next box of decorations. If he was going to be stuck thinking about Mycroft, he might as well keep himself busy while doing it.

He worked his way around the shop, hanging up more of the ridiculous ornaments Arthur had hoarded over the years. Some of them were - questionable at best - others were downright absurd.

A wooden reindeer with one antler missing.

A Santa Claus that looked suspiciously like it had been through a house fire.

A tiny porcelain teacup with a Christmas tree painted on it - because why not?

Arthur had always insisted on keeping every single one, no matter how odd, no matter how much Greg had tried to 'accidentally misplace' them.

Greg found himself smiling despite everything, untangling a string of gold tinsel as he made his way toward on of the corners.

Mycroft's corner.

Predictably, Mycroft hadn't moved an inch. His laptop was open, tea in its usual spot, but his sharp gaze flicked up as Greg approached, watching him with mild curiosity.

Greg plopped the box of ornaments onto the nearby chair, pulling out the next batch of Arthur's Christmas collection.

Mycroft, in that dry, unimpressed tone, simply said, "That is hideous."

Greg looked at the object in his hand - a ceramic snowman wearing an oversized tartan scarf, its painted-on grin slightly smudged.

Greg grinned. "Yeah? Well, it's tradition. And if you're gonna sit here every day, you get the full Novel Grounds festive experience."

Mycroft sighed, closing his laptop slightly, as if bracing himself for the nonsense to come. "Do I have a choice?"

"Absolutely not," Greg said cheerfully, draping tinsel across the top of the bookshelf beside Mycroft's table.

Mycroft eyed it with barely concealed distaste.

Greg pulled out a tiny, extremely ugly wooden nutcracker and hung it from the nearby shelf.

"That," Mycroft said, pointing at it with his teacup, "is a crime."

Greg smirked. "You're telling me a bloke with an entire intelligence network is disturbed by a nutcracker?"

"That," Mycroft said, leaning back slightly, "is not a nutcracker. That is a grotesque abomination dressed as one."

Greg chuckled, thoroughly entertained now. "Alright, then. How about this?"

He held up a tiny felt Christmas pudding with googly eyes.

Mycroft stared at it.

Greg could see the exact moment Mycroft decided whether or not to dignify it with a response. Finally, he simply muttered, "… your uncle Arthur had questionable taste."

Greg laughed, shaking his head as he pinned the Christmas pudding directly above Mycroft's seat.

"Oi," Greg said, stepping back to admire his work, "I bet your flat is depressing as hell during Christmas, isn't it?"

Mycroft sipped his tea, gaze still flat, unreadable.

"I appreciate an elegant approach to seasonal decor," he said, carefully measured. "This, however, is what I imagine would happen if a Christmas market exploded indoors."

Greg grinned. "Exactly. That's the charm of it."

Mycroft sighed. "Charming."

Greg snorted, pulling out one last ornament - a small, wooden gingerbread man with 'Arthur's Book Nook – 1987' painted on it.

His smile softened.

This one… this one he always put up last.

He carefully hooked it onto the bookshelf beside Mycroft, the warm glow of the fairy lights making it stand out just a little more.

For a brief moment, Mycroft didn't say anything. Then, quieter than before, he murmured, "That one, I understand."

Greg glanced at him, surprised. Mycroft's expression was as composed as ever, but there was something… softer about it.

Greg cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Arthur got it the first year he opened the shop. Puts things in perspective, I guess."

Mycroft nodded slightly, then, with a resigned sigh, gestured toward the nutcracker. "If you insist on making me endure this, at least move that one further away."

Greg grinned. "Oh no, mate. That one's staying right where it is."

Mycroft exhaled slowly, taking another sip of his tea as if to maintain whatever remained of his dignity.

"Tell me," Mycroft said, fingers lightly tapping the porcelain, "have you noticed anything… unusual lately?"

Greg frowned, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. "Unusual how?"

Mycroft's gaze sharpened slightly. "Regarding our previous discussion, about the document."

Greg's stomach tightened. Right. The damn confidential file Mycroft had left behind. For a while, he'd almost let himself forget about it.

Almost.

Greg sighed, rubbing his jaw as he thought. "You mean, have I noticed anyone watching the shop? Hanging around too long? Acting weird?"

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. "Yes."

Greg frowned, thinking back. "No one that stands out. We've had a lot of new faces lately, but that's just early Christmas shopping, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily," Mycroft murmured, drumming his fingers against the table. "Increased foot traffic makes it easier to blend in. If someone were watching, now would be the perfect time."

Greg exhaled through his nose. "Great. That's not ominous at all."

Mycroft smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do try to stay alert, Greg."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "You know something."

Mycroft didn't deny it. But he didn't confirm it either. Instead, he simply picked up his tea again, taking another careful sip.

Greg huffed. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

Greg watched him for a long moment before shaking his head, muttering, "You better tell me if something's actually happening, yeah?"

Mycroft met his gaze, his expression more guarded than before. "We'll see," he said smoothly.

Greg groaned, rubbing his face. "Brilliant. Just brilliant." Greg went back behind the counter to take the shop in.

The place felt different now.

Not in a bad way - just fuller. Warmer. The glow of the fairy lights reflected off the bookshelves, the slightly absurd collection of ornaments clashing in the best possible way with the soft jazz playing in the background.

It felt like Christmas.

And, for the first time in a long time, Greg actually felt excited about it.

With a small satisfied sigh, he pulled out his battered notebook. The one where he scribbled down every half-formed idea for the shop.

He flipped through the pages - past notes about the autumn event he had organized to bring in new customers, past a list of books Mycroft might enjoy (not that he'd ever admit it was real), and landed on his Christmas section:

Seasonal Specials at Novel Grounds:
Spiced Apple Chai (Arthur's old recipe)
Mulled Wine (every Friday evening)
Maybe a poetry reading / live music? (so it's not just me all the time)
Cat's Christmas Pudding Muffins - need to convince her to make them !!!
Gingerbread Latte - basic, but a guaranteed hit.
Book-Themed Gift Baskets?

Greg tapped his pen against his lip, thinking.

He liked the idea of a special event. Maybe an author reading, or a cozy, after-hours gathering where people could sit around with hot drinks and good stories.

The thought made him smile. Because this was the kind of thing Arthur would've loved.

He grabbed his tablet and placed some orders. Seasonal teas, extra cinnamon sticks, holiday-themed takeaway cups.

It was a lot of work, sure. But for now Greg wasn't thinking about security breaches or government files. He was thinking about his shop. His customers. The life he had built.

And, if he was being honest with himself - maybe just a little about the posh bastard still sitting in the corner, pretending not to watch him.

Greg smirked to himself, jotting down one last note in his book:

Find a way to make Mycroft try a gingerbread latte. (He'll hate it, but it'll be funny.)"

Satisfied, he closed the notebook, stretched, and looked out at the shop with something that felt a lot like contentment.

This was going to be a good Christmas.

From the moment December rolled in, Novel Grounds was busier than ever.

Greg had expected a bit of an increase in customers - after all, Christmas meant people were looking for cozy places to escape the cold, gifts for book-loving friends, and any excuse to indulge in holiday treats.

But he hadn't expected this.

Every morning, before the shop even opened, people were already waiting outside, stamping their feet against the chill, peering through the frost-covered windows, eager to get their hands on their spiced apple chai, mulled wine, and Christmas pudding muffins.

Greg was constantly on his feet - pulling shots of espresso, steaming milk, wrapping up books in festive paper, making sure every order went out as fast as possible.

And through it all, Cat was there. She wasn't just helping out - she was keeping him alive.

"Greg, dear, if you don't sit down and eat this, I will physically force you into a chair."

Greg barely looked up from the espresso machine, trying to keep up with the ever-growing queue of customers. "Can't, Cat. Order's up in thirty seconds, and table five is waiting on-"

A plate of food was suddenly shoved directly in front of his face.

"That," Cat said firmly, "is not my problem."

Greg blinked down at the massive sandwich she'd prepared, stacked with turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. His stomach growled so loudly he was convinced half the shop heard it.

Cat smirked. "That's what I thought."

Greg groaned but grabbed the sandwich, taking a massive bite as he turned back to work. "Happy now?" he mumbled, mouth full.

Cat rolled her eyes. "Ecstatic. Now finish that, or I swear to God, I'm calling Tom to drag you out of here himself."

Greg choked on his sandwich. "You wouldn't."

Cat grinned wickedly. "Try me."

By the afternoon rolled around, the shop was still packed.

Greg didn't mind, really. He liked the chaos. He liked seeing customers chatting over mulled wine, flipping through books in the soft glow of fairy lights, laughing over gingerbread lattes.

It felt like Christmas should feel.

And if Mycroft Holmes happened to be sitting in his usual corner, tea in hand, watching the whole thing unfold every evening - well.

Greg was too tired to think about why that made him so damn pleased.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But then, as he was flipping through his notebook during a quiet hour in the afternoon, running through the usual notes - inventory, seasonal orders, small ideas for business improvements - his eyes landed on a line he’d nearly forgotten about.

'Find a way to make Mycroft try a gingerbread latte'.

Greg smirked, tapping his pen against the page. Right.

He’d written that down weeks ago, when the Christmas menu had first launched, back when he’d figured it would be a funny little challenge.

Mycroft, with all his strict tea rituals and disapproving looks toward anything overly sweet, had never once strayed from his usual order.

But Greg liked testing the limits of Mycroft’s patience. And now, it felt like the perfect time.

Mycroft arrived on schedule, as always, stepping inside with his usual air of composure. Greg didn’t even give him the chance to order.

The moment Mycroft approached the counter, Greg set a gingerbread latte in front of him, complete with whipped cream and a little dusting of cinnamon.

Mycroft stared at it.

Then at Greg.

Greg grinned, leaning on the counter. "It’s on the house."

Mycroft exhaled slowly, as if already debating whether entertaining this nonsense was worth his time, "My usual order is-"

Greg held up a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But come on, Holmes. Live a little."

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change, but Greg saw the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"A gingerbread latte," Mycroft repeated, flatly.

Greg smirked. "You afraid you might actually like it?"

Mycroft gave him a long, slow stare. Then, with the most deliberate motion Greg had ever seen, he reached for the cup.

He lifted it, inspected it like it might personally offend him, then took a sip. Greg watched closely, waiting for a reaction. Nothing.

For a moment, Mycroft simply stood there, sipping in absolute silence, giving away nothing. Then, he set the cup down with the same precision he did everything else.

Greg crossed his arms. "Well?"

Mycroft adjusted his cuff, glanced at Greg, and simply said, "Acceptable."

Greg burst out laughing, "That’s it? Acceptable?"

Mycroft smirked ever so slightly, reaching for the cup again. "I see no reason to exaggerate the experience, Greg."

Greg shook his head, still grinning. "You are the worst."

"And yet, here we are."

Greg leaned closer, smirking. "You know you liked it."

Mycroft took another sip, unbothered. "That," he said smoothly, "is for me to know."

Greg chuckled, stepping back. "Fine. Keep your secrets."

But as Mycroft took his usual seat, gingerbread latte in hand, Greg counted that as a win.

One night, just as the last few customers were leaving, Greg slumped into a chair with an exhausted sigh.

Cat slid into the seat across from him, sipping her own tea.

"You look dead," she observed cheerfully.

Greg groaned, rubbing his face. "I feel dead."

Cat smirked. "Yeah, well, you're also running the most popular café in Covent Garden right now. Congratulations, dear you've officially created a monster."

Greg chuckled, tilting his head back. "Yeah? Well, if this keeps up, I'm gonna need five more of me to keep up with it."

Cat hummed, setting her cup down. "You know, Arthur would be so damn proud of you right now."

Greg swallowed, blinking up at the fairy lights. "Yeah?" he asked quietly.

Cat smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze his wrist. "Yeah. He really would."

Greg felt his throat tighten. But instead of saying anything, he just nodded, letting himself sit in the moment.

Cat stretched, grabbing her coat from the chair. "Alright, love," she said, stifling a yawn. "That's me done for the evening. You good to lock up?"

Greg glanced up, "Yeah, yeah, go on. Get some sleep. You've earned it."

Cat raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Or do I need to threaten you with a phone call to Tom again?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'll eat, I'll sleep, I'll even put my feet up for five minutes. Happy?"

Cat snorted. "I'll believe that when I see it." She threw on her scarf, eyeing him as she walked to the door. "Don't stay too late, alright?"

Greg waved her off. "Yes, Mum."

She grinned, blowing him a kiss. "See you in the morning, idiot." And with that, she was gone, the bell above the door chiming softly behind her.

Greg exhaled, stretching his arms over his head, letting the quiet settle in. It had been another long day, but a good one.

Now, all that was left was, tidying up, finishing the dishes, maybe pouring himself one last cup of tea and closing up.

Greg scanned the shop, eyes flicking over the warm glow of the fairy lights, the last few empty cups on tables, the shelves that could use some straightening. He sighed, rolling his shoulders, already planning what needed doing - but then he saw him.

Mycroft- standing near one of the bookshelves, half-hidden in the soft glow of the fairy lights.

He wasn't at his usual table.

Instead, he was watching Greg.

A book in hand, posture as composed as ever, but there was something different in the way he stood - like he had been waiting for Greg to notice him.

Greg's stomach did something strange, something he wasn't willing to name.

He wiped his hands on a towel, tilting his head. "You just stand there looking mysterious all night?"

Mycroft's lips curved slightly, but he didn't answer right away.

Instead, he lifted the book slightly, tilting it toward Greg. "I found something interesting."

Greg arched an eyebrow. "What, another philosophical nightmare that's gonna make my head hurt?" he teased, walking over.

But as he got closer, Mycroft held out the book. And Greg's smirk faded slightly when he saw the title:

A Study in Scarlet.

Mycroft's gaze flickered over him, unreadable. "A detective novel," he said simply.

Greg let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "Oh, come on. You're having me on."

"Not at all," Mycroft murmured, closing the book with a soft thud. "I merely thought it seemed… fitting."

Greg arched an eyebrow, smirking. "So, what? All those detective novels I've been throwing your way are finally growing on you?"

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, setting the book aside with deliberate precision. "I wouldn't go that far."

Greg chuckled, crossing his arms. "Uh-huh. You're telling me that after months of pretending to barely tolerate them, you just happened to pick up a classic?"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, his expression as composed as ever. but Greg caught it, that faint flicker of amusement beneath the surface.

"Perhaps," Mycroft said smoothly, "I simply find the genre… useful."

Greg's stomach flipped, because that?

That sounded like something much more than a casual book choice. And Greg had the distinct feeling that, once again, Mycroft was testing him.

Greg's fingers brushed the cover of the novel, gaze flicking up to Mycroft's.

"Are we talking about books, Holmes?" he asked quietly.

A pause - and then, softly, like it was almost an invitation:

"That depends on you, Greg."

Greg's breath caught for just a second, his fingers still resting on the cover of 'A Study in Scarlet'.

He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as he leaned against the bookshelf, tilting his head. "You know, for someone who supposedly doesn't enjoy detective fiction, you do an awful lot of talking in riddles."

Mycroft's lips curved ever so slightly, the ghost of a smirk. "You claim to enjoy a challenge. I assumed you wouldn't appreciate it if I made things too easy for you."

Greg let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You've got me there."

They stood there for a moment, the quiet hum of the shop filling the space between them. Greg could feel it - that pull, that tension that had been growing between them for months now.

The way Mycroft's gaze lingered just a second too long. The way Greg's pulse kicked up every time they danced around whatever this was.

Greg tapped the book's cover. "Alright, then. Let's say, hypothetically, that I wanted an answer."

Mycroft lifted a brow. "An answer to what, exactly?"

Greg smirked. "To whatever it is we've been circling around for months."

For the first time, Mycroft hesitated. Not in uncertainty - no, it wasn't that. It was deliberate, measured, like he was giving Greg space to make the next move.

Greg took a slow breath. "You're good at this, you know."

Mycroft blinked. "At what?"

Greg chuckled. "At not saying things. At leaving just enough unsaid to keep me wondering."

Mycroft tilted his head. "And yet, here we are."

Greg swallowed. "Yeah. Here we are."

The air felt thick, charged, like standing at the edge of something neither of them had the courage to name just yet.

Greg tilted his head, watching Mycroft carefully. "Are you ever gonna stop making me guess?"

Mycroft studied him for a long moment.

Then, in that quiet, deliberate way of his, he said "You're the detective, Greg. Tell me - what do you deduce?"

Oh… Oh, Mycroft was really going to make him say it first, wasn't he?

Greg's stomach twisted, but not with uncertainty - with something sharp, something electric. Because this was it. This was Mycroft Holmes, standing right in front of him, waiting. Not dodging. Not evading. Not sidestepping like he had a hundred times before.

Waiting.

And Greg had spent too long circling this, too long playing the game without admitting he was playing. He wasn't about to back down now. So, instead of deflecting, instead of laughing it off, he met Mycroft's gaze head-on.

"I deduce," Greg said slowly, "that you don't do things without a reason."

Mycroft's expression remained calm, unreadable but Greg saw the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides. He was listening.

Greg took a step closer, just enough to feel the weight of the space between them.

"I deduce that you don't waste time on things that don't interest you."

Mycroft's lips curved just slightly, but he didn't speak.

"And," Greg continued, voice quieter now, "I deduce that whatever it is we've been doing. This dance, this game, whatever you want to call it. You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to see where it leads."

A pause - then, softly, Mycroft murmured, "Go on."

Greg swallowed. "I also deduce that you're a stubborn bastard, and you're probably waiting for me to be the one to make a move."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. "Accurate."

Greg felt his pulse thudding against his ribs, waiting for Mycroft to pull away, to change the subject, to break the tension like he always did.

But he didn't.

He stayed.

Watching. Waiting.

Greg could feel it, the weight of everything left unsaid, pressing between them.

And frankly? He was sick of it.

Greg let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "If you want something, Mycroft, you should just go for it. Stop leaving me guessing."

The words landed hard, and Mycroft stilled, his carefully composed features giving the smallest flicker of surprise.

Greg let the moment sit there between them, let Mycroft feel the weight of it.

Then, instead of waiting for an answer, Greg took a deliberate step back and grabbed a rag from the counter, focusing his attention on cleaning up rather than whatever Mycroft would say next.

Because honestly? He wasn't going to play this game anymore.

Greg could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, could sense the way the other man was processing what had just been said.

For once, Mycroft Holmes looked stunned. And for a few seconds, he said nothing. Then, after a long moment, he cleared his throat. "I won't be coming by over the Christmas days."

Greg's hands paused in their movement, gripping the rag just a little tighter before forcing himself to continue wiping down the counter.

He exhaled through his nose, keeping his tone neutral. "Alright."

Mycroft hesitated. "I will be attending… family obligations."

Greg snorted softly. "Yeah, figured as much."

Mycroft studied him for a beat, but Greg didn't look up, refusing to be the one to break first.

Another silence stretched between them before Mycroft finally spoke again. "Enjoy your holiday, Greg."

Greg nodded, still focused on his cleaning. "Yeah. You too, Mycroft."

Mycroft hesitated - just for a fraction of a second.

Greg didn't look up.

And then, just like that, Mycroft turned, gathered his coat, and left.

The bell above the door chimed softly, the sound settling into the quiet shop like the final note of an unfinished song.

Greg kept his head down, his jaw tensing slightly as he wiped the counter with slow, deliberate strokes. Because for once, he wasn't the one left questioning where they stood.

This time, that was Mycroft's problem.

Greg exhaled sharply, shaking his head before tossing the rag onto the counter. But as he turned to grab his keys, a thought struck him.

Sod it.

He glanced toward the storage room, where he'd hidden Mycroft's Christmas present.

Greg had planned on giving it to him closer to Christmas, but now?

Now felt like the right time.

Without giving himself a chance to overthink it, Greg grabbed the small, carefully wrapped package from the shelf and hurried toward the door.

Greg pushed through the door, stepping onto the cold pavement just as Mycroft was about to disappear into the night. "Oi, Mycroft. Wait a sec!"

Mycroft stopped in his tracks, turning slowly, his breath visible in the crisp December air.

Greg held up the wrapped package, his smirk lopsided but genuine. "Figured I might as well give this to you now."

Mycroft's gaze flicked to the package, then back to Greg. "You got me a present?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Don't make it weird, Holmes. It's Christmas, people do this sort of thing."

Mycroft's lips twitched slightly, but he took the gift, his fingers brushing against Greg's for just a second longer than necessary.

Greg shoved his hands into his pockets as he stood there shivering only in his jumper. He watched as Mycroft turned the package over, studying it.

"You can open it now," Greg offered. "Or keep pretending you're not curious and wait 'til Christmas morning."

Mycroft gave him a flat look, but after a brief pause, he carefully peeled back the wrapping.

Greg watched as Mycroft's expression shifted ever so slightly when he saw the book inside.

A first-edition, hardback copy of 'The Man Who Was Thursday' by G.K. Chesterton. Greg remembered Mycroft once mentioning it in passing.

"Difficult to find a proper first edition these days," Mycroft had mused, glancing over Greg’s shelves. "Most physical copies are worn, incomplete, or reprints lacking the original typesetting. A shame, really."

Greg had tucked the information away, made it his personal mission to track one down.

And now, watching Mycroft turn the book over in his hands - his usually composed expression flickering with something Greg couldn’t quite name - he knew it had been worth it.

For once, Mycroft seemed at a loss for words.

Greg smirked, rocking back on his heels. "You mentioned it months ago. Took a bit of hunting, but, well…" He shrugged. "I'm stubborn like that."

Mycroft's fingers tightened slightly around the cover, his gaze lowering to the book before lifting back to Greg.

There was something there, in his eyes - something Greg had never quite seen before. Something almost… soft.

Greg scratched the back of his neck. "So, you gonna say something, or just stand there staring at it all night?"

Mycroft exhaled, shaking his head slightly. Then, voice quieter than before, he said "Thank you, Greg. This is very thoughtful."

Greg felt something in his chest tighten. Because it wasn't just politeness. It wasn't just an automatic response. It was genuine. And Greg wasn't sure what to do with that.

So instead, he just grinned, clapping Mycroft's shoulder lightly, "Yeah, well. Merry Christmas, Holmes."

Mycroft inclined his head, slipping the book carefully into his coat. "Merry Christmas, Greg."

And this time as Mycroft walked away, Greg didn't feel like he'd been left guessing.

This time, he knew exactly what that meant.

Chapter Text

Greg hung up the notice on the door that they would be closed from December 25th until January 2nd.

He stepped back, eyeing the sign with a mix of satisfaction and unease.

It felt strange closing the shop for a whole week. For months, Novel Grounds had been his whole life. His routine. His escape. And now this would be his first real break since Arthur died.

Greg ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.

He knew he needed it. A full week to breathe, to rest, to maybe figure out what the hell was going on with Mycroft Holmes.

But at the same time, the idea of stepping away, of not having the shop to focus on, made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

This place had been his anchor. And for the first time, he was letting go.

He rubbed at the tension in his neck, muttering to himself, "Well, too late to change your mind now, Lestrade."

As if on cue, Cat walked in from the back, untying her apron. "That's it, then?" she asked, nodding toward the sign.

Greg smirked. "Yeah. Figured I'd finally let myself have a week off. You know, act like a normal person for once."

Cat huffed a laugh, crossing her arms. "Bloody miracle, that. Took Arthur's stubbornness right to the grave, didn't you?"

Greg chuckled, but there was something in her voice that made him pause.

She was watching him carefully, like she knew exactly how hard this was for him.

Greg sighed, leaning against the counter. "Feels weird, though. Not being here."

Cat softened, stepping closer. "Yeah. I get that. But Greg… Arthur would want you to live, not just run yourself into the ground keeping this place going."

Greg swallowed, nodding once. "Yeah. I know."

A silence settled between them, comfortable but heavy.

Then Cat smirked, nudging him lightly. "So? You got plans for the holidays, or are you just gonna sit in your flat and contemplate the meaning of life?"

Greg snorted. "Haven't decided yet. Might do a bit of both."

Cat gave him a knowing look. "And your posh tea-drinking shadow? Think he's gonna pop up over the holidays?"

Greg rolled his eyes, but he felt his stomach flip slightly at the thought.

"Apparently, he's got family obligations," Greg muttered. "Guess he's off doing the whole 'Holmesian Christmas' thing, whatever the hell that looks like."

Cat raised an eyebrow. "And that doesn't bother you?"

Greg hesitated. Did it? Maybe a little. But he wasn't about to admit that. Instead, he just shrugged. "It is what it is."

Cat didn't look convinced. But she didn't push. Instead, she just patted his shoulder, grabbing her coat. "Well, whatever you do, Greg, try to actually enjoy it."

Greg smirked. "I'll do my best."

Cat rolled her eyes. "That's the most half-arsed promise I've ever heard."

Greg chuckled, and with that, she headed for the door, waving over her shoulder. "Merry Christmas, dear. Don't do anything stupid."

Greg watched her go, the shop suddenly feeling much quieter.

She was halfway out the door when she paused, turning back with a pointed look. "Oh, and Greg?"

He looked up. "Yeah?"

"You'd better be on time tomorrow. Christmas dinner starts at two, and if you show up late, I'm making Tom come drag you out of your flat himself."

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. Wouldn't miss it."

Cat raised an eyebrow like she didn't quite believe him, but she let it go. "Good. I'll have a plate ready for you, even if you're a pain in the arse."

Greg grinned. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Cat gave him one last knowing look, then disappeared into the night.

Greg sighed. A whole week off. What the hell was he going to do with himself?

The thought lingered, heavier than it should have.

Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair, staring at the closed sign as if it had answers.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he had no schedule to keep, no customers to serve, no invoices to sort, no deliveries to check off.

Just… time.

And bloody hell, that was unsettling.

He took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, Arthur, what now?"

And then - clear as day, as if the old man were standing right behind him - Greg heard it.

"You tell me, lad. What is it you actually want?"

Greg froze, his heart stumbling over itself.

It wasn't real, of course. It wasn't like he actually believed in ghosts or any of that nonsense. But for a moment - just for a moment - it felt like Arthur was still here.

Greg let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. "You always did have terrible timing, you know that?"

"You always did avoid answering the real question, you know that?"

Greg snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. No need to haunt me over it, old man."

But the question stuck. What did he actually want?

Right now, he wanted to stop standing around like an idiot, overthinking everything. So he locked up the shop and stepped out onto the cold pavement.

Because if Arthur was here - really here - Greg knew exactly what he'd say.

"You're too young to be this bloody stuck, Gregory. Stop thinking. Start doing."

Greg planned on listening.

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, exhaling into the cold night air as he walked. The streets were still busy, the festive hum of Christmas in London carrying on around him. Couples walking hand-in-hand, families laughing, last-minute shoppers hurrying to buy gifts.

It all felt so… separate from him.

Greg had spent so much time throwing himself into the shop, into making sure Novel Grounds stayed afloat, into keeping Arthur's legacy alive that now, with a week off, he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

What did people even do when they weren't working?

He could go to the pub. Meet up with some mates, get a bit pissed, let the night wash away the nagging thoughts creeping in. But somehow, even that didn't sound appealing.

And, of course, his mind drifted.

To a certain impossibly frustrating, tea-obsessed bastard who was probably sitting in some over-decorated estate, enduring Christmas with his family in the most joyless way imaginable.

Greg shook his head, muttering to himself. "Not my problem."

So why the hell was he still thinking about it?

He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Christ, I need a drink."

But instead of heading for a pub, his feet carried him to Tesco to buy some essentials before the shops closed for the next few days.

With a bag in each hand and a six pack of beer under one arm, he headed back home. Because as much as he hated to admit it, what he really needed was sleep.

And maybe - just maybe - some distance from whatever the hell was happening between him and Mycroft Holmes.

At least for tonight.

The next morning, Greg made himself breakfast and coffee, settling down with a book he'd started the night before.

It felt strange, waking up without the usual rush to open the shop, no list of deliveries to check, no espresso machine steaming away in the background.

Just… quiet.

He stood in the kitchen, still a bit groggy, watching the coffee drip into his mug. The flat smelled of fresh toast and butter, the soft hiss of the kettle the only noise in the stillness.

This was the first real morning he'd had to himself in… how long?

Greg huffed, shaking his head. Too long.

He carried his coffee and plate of toast to the small, slightly cluttered table near the window. The book - one he'd meant to read for months but never found the time for - was still lying open where he'd left it.

With a sigh of contentment, he picked it up, flipping back a couple of pages to refresh his memory.

Reading had come way too short in his daily routine. Owning a bookshop and not reading enough books? The irony wasn't lost on him.

Greg took a sip of coffee, letting himself get lost in the pages, the words pulling him in as the world outside moved on without him for once.

He sat there reading and eating for quite a while.

It was easy, too easy to lose himself in the words, the pages turning faster than he realized.

Greg had always had a tendency to get lost in stories. As a kid, before his life had been school and responsibility, before his mother had passed, before Arthur had taken him in, before everything, books had been his escape.

Even now, after years of reality pulling him in every direction, studying to chase criminals and, more recently, pouring cups of coffee, tea and shelving books instead of solving cases, it still had the same effect.

He barely noticed how his coffee had cooled, the toast long finished. He just kept reading, flipping page after page, the outside world fading to the edges of his awareness.

It was only when the morning sun had shifted noticeably across the floor, warming the space beside him, that he blinked and realized how much time had passed.

Greg exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

He'd meant to just read for a little while.

Instead, the whole morning was gone and he had to get ready to not be late to Cat's Christmas dinner.

Greg glanced at the clock and swore under his breath.

How the hell had it gotten so late?

One minute, he was just having a quiet morning, catching up on a book - the next, he had about twenty minutes to get his act together before Cat decided to send Tom over to physically drag him out of his flat.

With a groan, he set the book down, stretching his arms over his head. He could already hear Cat's voice in his head: "Gregory Lestrade, if you walk in late smelling like nothing but books and coffee, I swear to God."

Yeah, he wasn't about to risk it.

He stood, quickly rinsed out his coffee mug, then made his way to his bedroom to get changed.

Nothing fancy - Cat would never expect that - but he couldn't show up looking like he'd just rolled out of bed, either.

A decent button-up, his nicer jumper, jeans that weren't borderline threadbare.

Good enough.

He ran a hand through his hair, grabbed his coat, and after double-checking he had all the present in his backpack, he headed for the door.

He might be cutting it close, but at least he wasn't late.

The ride on the Tube wasn't spectacular. Most of the city had calmed down. The usual rush of people nowhere to be seen.

Christmas in London had a way of changing the atmosphere.

The streets weren't empty, not entirely, but the frantic energy of holiday shopping had faded. Now, people were home, tucked away with their families, settling into warm houses and cozy dinners.

Greg sat in a half-full carriage, the usual hum of conversation muted, quieter than usual.

He didn't mind it.

With his coat wrapped around him and his book open in his hands, he let himself fall back into the story, reading a few more pages until the train announced his stop.

He sighed, closing the book with a soft thud, tucking it under his arm as he stood.

Time to face the holiday.

Time to face Cat's dinner, Tom's terrible Christmas sweaters, and whatever other surprises the night had in store.

Tom opened the door for Greg.

Greg barely had time to brace himself before he was pulled into a tight, warm hug. The kind that nearly crushed the air out of his lungs.

"Greg, mate! About time!"

Greg let out a choked laugh, giving Tom a half-hearted pat on the back as he tried to free himself. "Jesus Tom, let a bloke breathe, yeah?"

Tom chuckled, finally releasing him, stepping back with his usual goofy grin.

Greg took a proper look at him now, and - bloody hell. "What in God's name are you wearing?"

Tom grinned wider, stretching his arms out to show off the truly horrific Christmas jumper he had on. It was red and green, covered in blinking LED lights, and had an actual, 3D plush reindeer head sticking out of the middle.

Greg stared. "That is… possibly the worst thing I have ever seen in my life."

Tom looked absolutely delighted. "Right? Cat picked it. Said if I'm gonna be embarrassing, I might as well go all in."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, well, mission accomplished, mate. You look like the result of a Christmas disaster experiment."

Tom threw an arm over Greg's shoulders, already steering him inside. "Come on, don't be jealous. You're just mad you don't have one."

Greg rolled his eyes, but he was already grinning.

The warmth of the house, the scent of roast dinner and mulled wine, the sound of laughter from the kitchen - it felt like home.

Greg kept their twins busy while Cat and Tom finished cooking and setting the table. It had started with one question.

"Greeeeeg, can you play with us?"

And somehow, Greg had found himself fully recruited into their world of absolute chaos.

Tom and Cat's ten-year-old twins, Ollie and Evie, were little whirlwinds of energy, and Greg was now firmly trapped in their latest game.

"We're spies!" Ollie declared, crouching behind the sofa like it was some top-secret hideout.

"You're the enemy," Evie added, peeking out from behind an armchair. "You've stolen the Christmas pudding, and we have to get it back."

Greg smirked, arms crossed. "Stolen, have I? Maybe I just fancy keeping it for myself. You lot don't even appreciate a good pudding."

Ollie gasped, whispering to Evie. "He admits it! He's guilty!"

Greg chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Alright, then. If you're spies, what's your plan? Got some fancy gadgets? A top-secret mission brief?"

Evie narrowed her eyes, tapping her chin dramatically. "We could tie him up."

Greg snorted. "Oi, I don't like where this is going."

Before he could even finish, Ollie launched himself at Greg's arm, trying to 'restrain' him, while Evie grabbed a scarf and attempted to wrap it around his legs.

Greg laughed, lifting Ollie up effortlessly and tossing him onto the sofa while dodging Evie's attempt at a 'capture'.

"Not bad, agents," Greg teased, grinning as they regrouped. "But you'll have to do better than that if you want your pudding back."

"Oh, we will," Evie said ominously.

Greg had half a second to wonder what that meant before…

"Gotcha!"

They tackled him.

And just like that, Greg was on the floor, two determined ten-year-olds pinning him down while they dramatically 'recovered' the stolen pudding - which, in this case, was a stuffed Christmas toy from the mantel.

"Alright, alright!" Greg surrendered, laughing breathlessly. "You win! The pudding is yours!"

Ollie and Evie cheered victoriously, still tangled over him when Cat's voice rang from the kitchen, "Dinner's ready, you menaces!"

She appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, shaking her head at the sight before her.

"Greg," she sighed, mock-exasperated, "I asked you to keep them busy, not let them take you hostage."

Greg grinned up at her from the floor. "Look, they're surprisingly effective. Might need to hire them for security at the shop."

Cat rolled her eyes, already heading back to the kitchen. "Just get up and wash your hands, you lot. And Tom darling please help Greg up before the kids actually do tie him up."

Tom chuckled, walking over and offering Greg a hand. "Mate, I don't think you stand a chance against them."

Greg sighed dramatically as he took the hand and pulled himself up. "Yeah, well. Next time, I'm calling in backup."

Greg was completely stuffed to the brim.

He slumped back in his chair, groaning dramatically, one hand resting over his stomach. "Right. That's it. You lot are trying to kill me."

Cat smirked, sipping her wine. "I warned you, dear. No one leaves my table hungry."

Greg huffed, tilting his head back. "Hungry? I feel like I need to be rolled out of here."

Tom chuckled, patting his own stomach. "That's the perfect way to feel after a proper Christmas dinner, mate. Completely unable to move."

Across the table, Ollie and Evie were still picking at their desserts, debating whether they had enough room for one more mince pie. Greg, meanwhile, felt like one more bite might actually finish him off.

Cat leaned forward, raising an eyebrow. "Tea? Coffee? Something to help digest all that?"

Greg groaned. "Unless it's a miracle cure for overeating, I might pass."

Tom nudged him with a smirk. "Come on, mate, you're looking a bit old for all this. Losing your stamina?"

Greg gave him a lazy glare. "I'll have you know, I'm in peak physical condition. This is just… an intentional food coma."

Evie giggled. "I think you're turning into the pudding."

Greg choked on a laugh, waving her off. "Oi, show some respect. I was gonna be an officer of the law."

Ollie leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, "So was Santa, you know. A spy."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Ollie nodded sagely. "Yeah. He watches everyone. Knows if you've been bad or good. Classic spy tactics."

Tom burst out laughing, while Cat simply shook her head. "See, Greg? This is what happens when you encourage them."

Greg smirked, stretching his legs out under the table. "Hey, I'm just saying, Santa running a covert operation makes a lot of sense."

Evie gasped. "Greg! Do you think your boyfriend Mycroft knows Santa?"

Greg choked on air.

Tom nearly spat out his drink.

Cat, to her credit, simply grinned into her wine glass.

Greg recovered quickly, blinking at Evie who's looking far too pleased with herself.

Greg groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Right. First of all, he's not my boyfriend. And second, where d'you even hearing this?"

Evie grinned, completely unbothered by Greg's protests. "Mummy said you spend a lot of time with him at the shop."

Greg shot a betrayed look at Cat. "Oh, did she now?"

Cat took a slow, smug sip of wine. "I may have… mentioned it."

Tom, coughing to hide his laughter, leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, mate. I mean, the kids have a point."

Greg huffed, waving them off. "Right, that's enough Christmas conspiracies for one night. Time to move to the sofa before I actually become part of this chair."

Cat smirked, her eyes still gleaming with amusement. "Go on, then. I'll bring the drinks over."

Greg groaned dramatically as he forced himself to stand, clutching his stomach. "If I don't make it, tell the world my story."

Ollie giggled. "That you were defeated by a Christmas dinner?"

Greg nodded solemnly. "Exactly."

And with that, he waddled off to the sofa, trying his best to ignore the conversation still happening behind him.

Greg laid down on the sofa with his wine glass, taking a sip, finally allowing himself to relax.

The warmth of the house, the soft hum of conversation from the dining room, the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner. It was all bloody perfect.

For once, Greg wasn't thinking about work, the shop, or even the ridiculous conversation that had just unfolded at dinner. But, of course, peace never lasted long.

His phone buzzed against his thigh.

Greg groaned, reluctantly setting his wine glass on the coffee table before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

He had one new message - from Mycroft.

Greg's eyebrows lifted. He hadn't expected to hear from him, not tonight. He tapped the screen, opening the message.

{ I assume you are currently recovering from an overindulgence of Christmas dinner – M }

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head before typing back.

{ You assume correctly :D I may never move again. }

After a short pause his phone buzzed again.

{ I find that unlikely. You have a remarkable tendency to recover when properly motivated – M }

Greg smirked, shaking his head.

{ You saying you're motivating, Holmes? }

The reply was almost immediate.

{Merely observant – M }

Greg huffed a quiet laugh, rolling onto his side, his stomach ache forgotten.

{ You're not suffering through a Holmes family dinner right now? Thought you'd be busy avoiding terrible conversation and pretending to enjoy yourself ;) }

{ I am perfectly capable of multi-tasking, Greg – M }

Greg smiled, resting his head against the cushion.

{ So what, you texting me from the middle of a posh dinner table, or did you sneak off? }

A long pause followed.

{ You deduce – M }

Greg let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. That Bloody man. Even at Christmas, he couldn't just give a straight answer.

Greg took another sip of wine, his exhaustion from earlier forgotten.

{ Alright, here's my guess… right now, you're hiding away from your family obligations, sitting on some absurd golden toilet, texting me because it's more entertaining than pretending to enjoy yourself :P }

There was a long pause before Greg's phone buzzed again.

{ I beg your pardon? – M}

Greg grinned, stretching out on the sofa.

{ What? You're as posh as they come. I figure the estate has at least one ridiculous, unnecessary golden toilet. Tell me I'm wrong :D }

Another pause. Then Mycroft replied

{ I will neither confirm nor deny the existence of such a fixture. – M}

Greg choked on his wine, laughing.

{ That's not a no :D }

{ It is, however, not a yes – M }

Greg shook his head, grinning at his phone.

{ Alright, serious question. Why do you sign your texts with "M"? }

{ To distinguish myself, of course – M }

{ From what? The other Mycrofts in my life? – M }

{ From all the people you speak to who are not me – M }

{ Right. So I'll always know it's you – M }

{ Precisely – M }

Greg sighed through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. Because for all of Mycroft's control, all his composure, he was still a human puzzle waiting to be solved.

And Greg had every intention of figuring him out. Which, apparently, was written all over his face.

Because before he could even type another response, a voice rang out from the doorway, "Alright, what's got you grinning like a lovesick idiot?"

Greg startled, fumbling slightly with his phone as he looked up to see Cat standing there, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in clear suspicion.

She was holding a glass of wine in one hand, smirking like she already knew the answer and was just waiting for him to admit it.

Greg rolled his eyes, setting his phone down on his stomach. "Nothing."

Cat snorted, stepping further into the room. "Nothing, my arse. You look like a teenager texting their crush."

Greg huffed. "Oh, sod off. It's just Mycroft."

Cat's eyes lit up. "Oh, it's 'just Mycroft', is it?" she said teasingly.

Greg instantly knew he'd walked straight into that one.

He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Auntie"

But she was already plopping herself down in the armchair across from him, looking far too pleased.

"Please, go on," she teased, sipping her wine. "Tell me all about why Mycroft is texting you on Christmas night and making you grin like that."

Greg glared at her, but it had no effect whatsoever.

He sighed, sitting up slightly. "He's just-" He hesitated.

What was Mycroft doing? Checking in? Avoiding his family? Teasing him? All of the above?

Cat smirked. "He's just…?"

Greg sighed, shaking his head. "He's just being a cryptic, smug bastard, as usual."

Cat leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "And you love it."

Greg opened his mouth to argue, to say anything that might wipe that knowing expression off her face. But nothing came out. Because, well… she wasn't exactly wrong.

Cat grinned, victorious. "I bloody knew it."

Greg groaned, grabbing a cushion and shoving it over his face.

Cat was far too pleased with herself, and Greg was never going to hear the end of this. But before she could start in on another round of teasing, a high-pitched voice cut through the room.

"Presents! Presents! Presents!"

Greg barely had time to react before Ollie and Evie came charging into the living room, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Can we open them now? Greg's here, so we have to!"

Tom strolled in behind them, grinning as he ruffled Ollie's hair. "You lot have been waiting all day, huh?"

Evie bounced on her heels. "Yes!"

Ollie turned to Greg, hands on his hips. "Greg, tell them it's time. You have authority."

Greg grinned, tossing the cushion aside. "Oh, do I now?"

Evie nodded fiercely. "Yes. You're an adult, and you're the guest, so you get the deciding vote."

Greg turned to Cat and Tom, smirking. "Well, can't argue with that logic."

Cat sighed, but she was already reaching for the gifts under the tree. "Alright, alright. Let's do this before they explode."

The twins cheered.

Greg settled back on the sofa as the controlled chaos of present opening began.

Wrapping paper flew everywhere, excited squeals and laughter filled the room, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Greg let himself just… be present.

He handed out a few gifts, watching as Ollie practically threw himself at Tom after unwrapping a new football jersey and Evie hugged Cat tight over a new art set.

It was warm. Comfortable. Familiar.

And Greg let himself think: Arthur would've loved to be here and see this.

The thought settled somewhere deep in his chest, not painful, not sharp - just there. A reminder. A comfort.

The house had quieted down, the energy of Christmas Day finally settling as Ollie and Evie were tucked in, exhausted from excitement, sugar, and general mischief.

Greg stretched, rolling his shoulders as he stood near the front door, slipping on his coat. "Right, well, thanks for having me. That was a proper Christmas, that."

Tom grinned, clapping a hand on Greg's back. "Of course. You know you're welcome here anytime."

Greg smiled, but before he could say anything else he could hear Cat say, "Gregory Lestrade, you are not leaving my house without food."

Greg barely had time to react before Cat appeared with an absolutely ridiculous amount of leftovers.

Greg blinked. "Cat, I can't-"

"You can and you will," she said firmly, stacking foil containers into his arms faster than he could protest. "Turkey, stuffing, roasties, pigs in blankets - oh, and extra gravy, because you moaned about there never being enough."

Greg gawked at the mountain of food. "Cat, this is more than enough to last me till New Year!"

"Good," she said, completely unbothered. "That way I won't have to worry about you living off coffee, microwave dishes and toast all week."

Tom chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "She's got a point, mate."

Greg huffed, adjusting the weight of the food in his arms. "Alright, alright, you win. I'll eat properly."

Cat gave him a look. "You'd better. And don't just shove it all in the fridge and forget about it."

Greg smirked. "I'd never waste your cooking, Cat. That would be a crime."

She rolled her eyes but smirked back, then pulled him in for a quick hug. "Merry Christmas, Greg."

Greg smiled, squeezing her back. "Merry Christmas, auntie."

Tom clapped him on the shoulder one more time as Greg stepped out onto the cold night air. "Take care, mate. Try not to get into any trouble before New Year."

Greg grinned, stepping onto the pavement, his breath visible in the cold air. "No promises."

And with that, he headed home. Arms full of leftovers, heart full in a way he hadn't expected.

Greg had just rolled out of bed, still half-asleep and wrapped in a blanket, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He squinted at the screen, rubbing a hand over his face before unlocking it.

{ I trust you survived last night? – M }

Greg huffed a small laugh, stretching as he sat up. Of course Mycroft would check in like this. Formal, slightly sarcastic, but unmistakably intentional.

He smirked as he typed back.

{ Barely. I was force-fed half a turkey and am now legally classified as part pudding. }

{ I did warn you about overindulgence – M }

{ You did. But you failed to account for Cat's ability to weaponize leftovers. }

Greg could almost picture Mycroft's unimpressed expression, the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way he'd exhale through his nose like Greg was an idiot.

{ I fail to see how that is my concern – M }

Greg grinned, shaking his head. He flopped back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling.

They were doing this again, weren't they? The back-and-forth, the teasing, the deliberate way Mycroft left things open-ended, just enough for Greg to push further.

Greg drummed his fingers against his stomach, debating. And then he typed:

{ So, no golden toilet updates? ;) }

{ You remain obsessed with this entirely fictional fixture. Should I be concerned? – M }

{ Just making sure you survived your own holiday torture. }

{ Tolerable – M }

Greg smirked. That was as close to an admission of suffering as he was ever going to get from Mycroft Holmes.

He considered leaving it there, but something in him - something reckless, something that had been stirring since their last conversation in the shop - made him push just a little further.

{ And now? What's on the schedule for the Great Mycroft Holmes? Back to work already? Or are you actually taking time off? }

A long pause followed.

{ I am… between obligations at the moment – M }

Greg raised an eyebrow. That was an interesting way to phrase it.

{ That almost sounds like an opportunity… }

Another pause. Greg waited, thumb hovering over the screen.

{ An opportunity for what, exactly? – M }

Greg smirked, heart kicking up slightly.

{ That depends. You want me to keep guessing? Or are you finally gonna tell me what you want? }

Greg hit send before he could think better of it. And now, he waited. He stared at his phone, watching the little typing bubble appear - then disappear.

Then appear again - then disappear.

Greg huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, come on, Holmes, just say it."

He could practically see Mycroft debating with himself. Calculating the best possible response. Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute, his phone buzzed.

{ Patience, Greg. A skill worth mastering – M }

{ Oh, piss off. You're doing this on purpose. }

{ Naturally – M }

Greg rolled his eyes.

{ You're insufferable, you know that? }

{ And yet, you keep texting me – M }

Greg smirked, shaking his head.

{ Fine. Keep your secrets. What are you up to, anyway? Still avoiding your family? }

{ Unfortunately, no. I now have other obligations – M }

{ Ah. Work? }

{ Something like that – M }

Greg narrowed his eyes at the screen. Vague. Annoyingly vague. But at this point, he knew better than to press when Mycroft wasn't ready to say more.

Instead, he leaned back against the headboard and grinned as he typed:

{ You mean to tell me the Great Mycroft Holmes is actually busy? And here I thought you lived to torment me. }

There was a brief pause.

{ Greg, I am more than capable of multi-tasking – M }

Greg chuckled.

And just like that, a rhythm fell into place. Mycroft didn't say where he was, what he was doing, or when he'd be back in London.

And Greg didn't ask. Because that week, they kept texting. Every day.

December 26th:

{ Alright, question of the day: On a scale of 1 to 'I'd rather face international espionage' how bad was your family Christmas?}

{ Predictably tedious – M }

{ So that's a solid 8? }

{ More of a 7. My mother enjoys orchestrating overly formal meals, and most of my relatives were present – M }

{ Right, so a 9. }

{ Your mathematical skills remain questionable – M }

{ My patience for your nonsense remains strong ;) }

December 27th

{ Greg, explain something to me – M }

{ Morning to you too, sunshine. What's troubling that big brain of yours today? }

{ Why do people insist on wearing paper crowns from Christmas crackers? – M }

Greg stared at the message, blinking. Then he burst out laughing.

{ Oh, this is the mystery that's got you texting me at 9 AM? }

{ It is a tradition that serves no discernible purpose – M }

{ Mate, it's just fun. You pull the cracker, you get a little prize, a bad joke, and a paper crown. It's festive. }

{ Festive or foolish? – M }

{ Says the man who likely spent Christmas in a room full of people wearing them. }

{ Precisely. Which is why I require an explanation – M }

{ Don't tell me you refused to wear one? }

{ I do not see how that is relevant – M }

{ Oh my God. You did, didn't you? Please tell me there are photos – M }

{ That information is classified – M }

{ You're no fun, Holmes :( }

{ On the contrary, I believe you are having plenty of fun at my expense – M }

{ Alright, fair point. But next year? I'm getting you in one of those crowns. Consider it a mission. }

{ Your ambitions remain terribly misplaced – M }

{ You say that now. Just wait… }

December 28th

{ I have officially reached the point of my holiday where time has lost meaning. This is what retirement must feel like. }

{ You have been absent from work for precisely three days, Greg. Hardly retirement – M }

{ Yeah, well, I thrive in structure, alright? I need routine. Otherwise, I start having existential thoughts about my life choices. }

{ Unfortunate – M }

{ Wow. So much sympathy… }

{ I am confident you will endure – M }

{ And here I thought you were checking in out of genuine concern -.- }

{ Who said I wasn't? – M }

Greg stared at that reply for longer than he'd admit.

December 29th

{ Alright, serious question: Are you actually enjoying this little holiday of yours, or are you suffering in elegant silence? }

{ Define 'enjoying' – M }

{ Christ. Alright, let me rephrase. Have you done anything remotely relaxing? }

{ I read – M }

{ Go on… }

{ A book you would likely consider insufferable – M }

{ You're gonna have to narrow that down, mate. }

{ Machiavelli – M }

{ Of course. Not exactly light holiday reading, Holmes }

{ I find it soothing – M }

{ …Do I even want to unpack that? }

{ I'll leave that to your deductions – M }

December 30th

{ Greg, I require clarification on something – M }

{ What's troubling the great Holmesian mind today? }

{ At what point does “waking up late” become 'taking a nap'? – M }

{ What? xD }

{ The question is straightforward, Greg – M }

{ Hang on. You mean to tell me you actually slept in today? }

{ That is irrelevant to the discussion – M }

{ Oh no, it's VERY relevant. I need to know what classified event led to Mycroft Holmes sleeping past his usual time. }

{ Perhaps I simply required rest – M }

{ And you're struggling with the fact that it feels… unstructured? }

{ Let's just say my usual efficiency feels compromised – M }

{ Alright, here's the rule: If you wake up before noon, it's just sleeping in. If it's after noon, congratulations! You've taken a nap ;) }

{ That is an arbitrary distinction – M }

{ Life is arbitrary, Holmes. Deal with it. }

{ How reassuring – M }

{ You still haven't answered my question. What kept you in bed? Late night? Secret mission? Finally discovering the joys of an unstructured morning? }

{ A particularly engaging book – M }

{ Mycroft Holmes. Did you stay up all night reading? }

{ Not all night – M }

{ Unbelievable. What book was it? }

{ A study on geopolitical influence in modern economic structures – M }

{ course it was. }

{ What else would I read? – M }

{ Literally anything fun, Holmes. Next time, I'm picking your bedtime reading. Something with an actual plot. }

{ You assume I would allow such a thing – M }

{ You assume I won't find a way ;) }

{ …We shall see – M }

December 31st

{ Alright, Holmes. Big question. Where are you at midnight? Party? Alone in your office plotting world domination? }

{ I am not currently working – M }

{ That's not an answer, mate }

{ Where will you be at midnight? – M }

{ Nice try. I asked first }

{ Indeed. And yet, you remain predictable – M }

Greg stared at that one, lips twitching.

Because this was different. This wasn't just banter. This was Mycroft, subtly shifting the weight back onto Greg.

And for the first time, Greg thought… Maybe it was his turn to make a move. He exhaled, tapping out a reply.

{ Tell you what. Ask me again at midnight }

Chapter Text

Greg had half a mind to put his phone down, pour himself another drink, and let the night carry on as it would.

But he didn't.

Because as much as he hated to admit it - as much as he wanted to act like it wasn't a big deal - he was waiting for Mycroft's reply.

And when his phone finally buzzed, Greg's heart did something stupid and annoying, but he ignored it.

{ Very well. I shall ask you again at midnight – M }

Greg smirked, shaking his head.

That was as close to an admission of interest as he was ever going to get from Mycroft Holmes.

He checked the time. 7:47 PM.

Still a while to go. And he wasn't spending the night just sitting around.

Greg was waiting for his friends. They'd made a half-drunken plan earlier in the week to go out for New Year's, hit a few bars, maybe even end up at some ridiculous club if things got out of hand.

Have a few drinks, get a bit sloshed, ring in the New Year with good company and terrible decisions. That sounded like a great plan in Greg's mind.

But now was starting to feel like he was waiting for something - or someone - else entirely.

Before he could think himself in circles, his phone buzzed again.

{ Where are you spending the evening? – M }

Greg smirked, tapping out a reply.

{ Going out with the lads. What about you? Where are you spending the evening? }

{ Currently in transit – M }

{ Transit? Posh way of saying you're on the tube or code for 'somewhere in a private jet over the Atlantic'? }
A longer pause this time. Then Mycroft replied:

{ I'll ask you at midnight, Greg – M }

Greg stared at the message, his stomach twisting with something he didn't quite want to name.

Before he could overthink it, his doorbell rang.

He exhaled, shaking his head as he stood up, grabbing his coat before heading to the door. Time to focus on his actual plans for the night.

Greg opened the door to find Matt grinning at him, already looking like he was in the mood for trouble.

"Oi, Lestrade!" Matt clapped a hand on his shoulder, stepping inside. "You ready to make some terrible choices tonight?"

Greg smirked, tucking his phone into his pocket. "Mate, I was born ready."

Matt chuckled, handing Greg a flask. "Pre-game. Just a little something to warm us up before we hit the first bar."

Greg took a sip, wincing slightly. "Bloody hell, what is this? Paint thinner?"

Matt grinned. "Only the finest. Now, come on, we're already running late."

Greg grabbed his keys, locking up behind them as they stepped out into the cold December night.

The streets of Covent Garden were alive with energy. People spilling out of pubs, wrapped in coats and scarves, laughing, celebrating. The whole city had a kind of electric charge, the anticipation of midnight growing with every hour.

Greg and his friends made their way through the crowds, shoulders bumping as they weaved through the lively streets, heading toward their usual spots.

"First stop?" Greg asked, glancing at Matt.

"The Ship Anchor," Matt said. "Get a few rounds in before we see where the night takes us."

Greg nodded. "Sounds like a plan."

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen.

8:16 PM.

Still plenty of time before midnight.

Still plenty of time before he had to think about Mycroft's message.

They went from bar to bar, getting more drunk with every stop, losing one of their group members each time to other people they knew.

What had started as a rowdy pack of five had gradually dwindled down. One mate spotted an old flame, another got dragged into a drinking contest, one just disappeared entirely after texting something about a kebab shop.

And now it was just Greg and Matt, standing outside their final stop of the night.

The Neon Fox.

Greg stared at the glowing sign, then let out a laugh. "Ironic, really," he muttered, shaking his head.

Matt grinned, clapping a hand on Greg's shoulder. "What, because the last time we were here, you were trying to make a certain posh bastard jealous?"

Greg groaned, rubbing his face. "Don't remind me."

Matt laughed, "Mate, you literally snogged a stranger in front of him."

Greg waved him off, already heading toward the entrance. "Come on, let's get another drink before you start rewriting history."

Matt continued laughing, following him inside.

The club was packed. The air was thick with music and heat, the bass thrumming through Greg's chest as they stepped in.

Flashing neon lights. Sweaty bodies moving on the dance floor. The smell of alcohol, perfume, and something vaguely floral that Greg could never quite place.

It was louder, busier, more chaotic than anywhere they'd been tonight.

Greg pushed his way toward the bar, Matt right behind him.

The bartender barely looked at them before shouting over the noise, "What'll it be?"

Greg didn't even hesitate. "Whiskey, neat."

Matt smirked. "Double for me."

The drinks came quickly, and Greg grabbed his glass, leaning against the bar, surveying the crowd.

This place had so much history now, which was ridiculous, really. It was just a club. Just a place to drink and lose yourself for a bit. Except, last time he was here…

Greg's fingers tightened around his glass.

The last time he was here, Mycroft had been standing right there, watching him.

Waiting.

Greg knocked back a sip of whiskey, exhaling slowly.

Matt nudged him. "You alright, mate?"

Greg smirked, shaking off the thought. "Yeah. Just wondering if I'll lose you to the crowd next."

Matt laughed. "Nah. Think I'll stick with you for a bit. Until someone sexier turns up."

Greg rolled his eyes with a smile, "You're unbelievable?"

Matt just grinned, clinking his glass against Greg's. And with that, they drank, letting the night carry them forward.

They drank. They danced. They flirted. And slowly, midnight approached. The whiskey burned warm in Greg's veins, mixing with the electric buzz of the Neon Fox's atmosphere.

Everything was louder, brighter, hazier. The music thumping, the dance floor pulsing with bodies moving in time to the beat.

Greg and Matt had long abandoned the bar, lost somewhere in the crowd.

The drinks had loosened them up, made them carefree, reckless, weightless.

They danced - spinning through the shifting neon lights, surrounded by strangers who were just as lost in the moment.

Matt had disappeared at some point, his arm slung around some guy Greg didn't recognize.

Greg had laughed, shaking his head, but he wasn't exactly alone.

Someone had found him. A man with dark eyes and a wicked grin, his hands bold but playful as they danced, the two of them exchanging teasing words neither of them would remember in the morning.

Greg let himself sink into it, just for a little while.

The music, the movement, the easy attraction - it was fun. Simple. No thinking required. But even as the stranger leaned in, lips brushing close to Greg's ear - his mind wandered elsewhere. To a text message sitting unread on his phone.

To the words 'I'll ask you at midnight'.

To a certain posh, insufferable bastard who wasn't even here but still managed to occupy space in Greg's mind.

Greg sighed, pulling back slightly, offering the stranger a charming, apologetic smile. "Sorry, mate. Not tonight."

The guy raised an eyebrow but took it well, nodding before vanishing back into the crowd.

Greg exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. He glanced at his watch.

11:56 PM.

His stomach twisted, pulse thrumming in time with the beat.

Because in four minutes, Mycroft Holmes was going to text him. And He still had no bloody idea what he was going to say when he did.

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head at himself. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He was in a packed club on New Year's Eve, surrounded by people, drinks, distractions, but he was waiting for a bloody text.

It was pathetic. And yet, he knew damn well he wasn't leaving until he got it.

Someone bumped into him, a group passing by, laughing loudly, spilling half their drinks as they rushed toward the bar.

Greg glanced toward the crowd, spotting Matt still wrapped up in some half-flirt, half-drunken debate with a guy who looked equally entertained and exasperated.

Good. Matt was sorted.

Which meant Greg had no excuse to keep pretending he wasn't waiting.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, checking the time.

11:59 PM.

One minute.

The club lights dimmed slightly, signalling the approach of midnight. The energy shifted - excitement building, bodies pressing closer, anticipation buzzing through the room like static before a storm.

Someone grabbed a mic on stage, announcing, "Thirty seconds, everyone!"

The crowd roared, people grabbing their partners, their friends, their strangers for the inevitable countdown and kiss.

Greg's phone buzzed.

His breath hitched.

{ Well, Greg? Where are you at midnight? – M }

Greg stared at the message, his stomach twisting tight. Because this wasn't just a text. This was Mycroft holding him to his word. This was Mycroft asking for an answer.

This was Greg's move.

The countdown began.

"TEN!"

Greg licked his lips, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"NINE!"

What did he even say?

"EIGHT!"

What was the right answer?

"SEVEN!"

Did he tell Mycroft where he was?

"SIX!"

Did he say he was waiting for him?

"FIVE!"

Did he… fuck it. Greg exhaled sharply and typed:

{ Not where I want to be. }

"FOUR!"

He hit send.

"THREE!"

Waited.

"TWO!"

Mycroft's typing bubble appeared.

"ONE!"

Greg's breath hitched as his phone vibrated in his hand.

The club erupted into cheers, voices rising in celebration, music surging, confetti raining down from somewhere above. People clinked glasses, kissed, hugged, but Greg only had eyes for the screen.

Because Mycroft had answered.

{ Turn around – M }

Greg's heart stuttered. His fingers tightened around his phone as he slowly lifted his head, pulse hammering in his ears.

His stomach twisted, the lights of the club suddenly feeling too bright, too sharp, too unreal as he turned around.

And there, standing just inside the entrance, coat perfectly tailored, scarf draped over his shoulders, posture composed yet unmistakably deliberate, was Mycroft Holmes.

Greg stared, stunned, his mind scrambling to catch up.

Because this wasn't just a text, this wasn't just another round of their endless back-and-forth, this was Mycroft showing up - for him.

Greg exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief before starting toward him, pushing through the crowd. He barely registered the movement around him.

The way people swayed, celebrated, the way the whole city seemed to be ringing in the new year. Because right now, the only thing that mattered was Mycroft.

When he finally reached him, he just stood there, grinning like an idiot, "You came," Greg said, slightly breathless.

Mycroft, calm as ever, simply adjusted his cuff. "I did say I would ask you at midnight."

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "You could've just texted."

Mycroft lifted a brow. "That would have been redundant, wouldn't it?"

Greg exhaled, running a hand through his hair, still unable to process it. "You're unbelievable."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "And yet, here we are."

Greg laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah," he muttered, grinning wider than he had all night. "Here we are."

Greg let out a breathless chuckle, still trying to wrap his head around it. "You really don't do things by halves, do you?"

Mycroft lifted a brow. "Would you have expected anything less?"

Greg smirked, shaking his head. "No, but you have to admit, this is a hell of a move for a man who doesn't do social outings."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, something that wasn't quite amusement but wasn't dismissal, either. "You were expecting a text," he noted.

Greg huffed a laugh. "Yeah, funnily enough, I wasn't expecting you to show up at a bloody nightclub."

Mycroft glanced briefly at their surroundings, then back at Greg. "I must admit, this is not my usual choice of venue."

Greg grinned, crossing his arms. "And yet, here you are. For the second time."

Mycroft regarded him for a long moment before nodding slightly. "Yes," he said, almost thoughtful. "Here I am."

Greg didn't know what to do with that. With any of it. Because Mycroft had chosen this. Had chosen to leave whatever important obligation he had been dealing with behind and all for what?

For a conversation? For an answer? For Greg?

The thought made Greg's stomach do something stupid and undignified. He grabbed Mycroft's wrist - felt the way Mycroft immediately tensed at the unexpected contact - and tugged him toward the bar.

"Come on," Greg said. "If you're here, I'm buying you a drink."

He leaned in slightly, not close enough for it to mean anything, but just enough that Greg could actually hear him over the pounding bass. "Would you object to stepping outside?" Mycroft asked, voice clipped but calm. "This is far too loud for a proper conversation."

Greg chuckled, jerking his head toward the exit. "Alright, then. Let's get you some fresh air."

Mycroft followed Greg toward the door. Greg could feel the cold night air creeping in as they neared the door, and when they finally stepped outside, it was like breaking through the surface of water.

The street was quieter, crisp and cold, the buzz of the club muffled behind them.

Greg stuffed his hands in his coat pockets, exhaling as he let the winter air cool his flushed skin. "Better?"

Mycroft adjusted his scarf, exhaling slowly. "Significantly."

Greg chuckled, leaning against the railing just outside the entrance. "Figured as much."

For a moment, they just stood there, letting the contrast settle. The hum of distant traffic, the odd shout of celebration from some pub down the road, but nothing like the overwhelming noise inside.

Greg glanced sideways at Mycroft. "So," he said, smirking. "Gonna tell me what you're doing here, or am I supposed to just be flattered?"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, studying Greg with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. "I am here," Mycroft said, calm, composed, like it was the simplest thing in the world, "because you asked me what I wanted."

Greg's stomach flipped.

Oh.

He had not been expecting that. He cleared his throat, tilting his head slightly. "And?"

Mycroft's lips twitched, just slightly, "And I have come to answer you."

Greg barely had time to process that answer before Mycroft took a step closer. It wasn't a grand gesture, not some dramatic declaration, but it was deliberate.

Mycroft Holmes, who was always so careful, so measured, so composed, was standing dangerously close now.

Greg could feel the heat of him, could see the way his breath curled in the cold air between them. And then Mycroft tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking to Greg's lips, just for a second.

Greg's breath hitched. Oh. Oh. This was happening. Mycroft was about to-

"Oi! Bloody disgusting, that is!"

The words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and ugly.

Greg froze. So did Mycroft.

Further down the pavement, near the entrance to another bar, a group of three blokes stood, laughing to themselves, clearly drunk, clearly emboldened. "Fucking queers," one of them muttered, not even trying to be subtle.

Greg felt his entire body heat up. The warmth of the moment, the quiet electricity that had been building - all of it was gone, ripped away in an instant. The anger hit fast and hot, burning under his skin.

Greg turned around to face them.

Mycroft didn't move.

Greg felt his hands clench into fists. It wasn't just the words. It was the way they laughed after, nudging each other, acting like it was nothing. Like people like them had the right to ruin something that wasn't theirs to ruin.

Greg took a step forward.

Mycroft's hand shot out immediately, fingers curling around Greg's wrist - not tight, but firm enough to stop him.

But Greg wasn't having it.

With a tug, he pulled himself free, rolling his shoulders as he stalked forward. He could feel Mycroft's eyes on him, but he didn't turn back. Not now.

The three blokes, still laughing, still congratulating themselves on being absolute bastards, barely noticed him until he was standing right in front of them.

Greg's presence alone was enough to make one of them straighten up, narrowing his eyes in drunken confusion.

"Got a problem, mate?" the tallest one sneered, looking Greg up and down.

Greg didn't flinch. "Yeah," he said, voice low and sharp, "I do."

The one in the middle - the real mouthy one, the one who'd actually said the words - cocked his head, smirking. "Oh? And what's that, then fairy?"

Greg smiled. Cold. Unamused. Dangerous. "You," he said simply.

The bloke scoffed, nudging his friend. "Look at this fag. Thinks he's a hero."

Greg's fingers flexed at his sides. "No, mate. I think I'm about five seconds away from smashing your teeth in."

That got their attention. The mood shifted instantly, laughter giving way to defensiveness, aggression.

The tall one stepped forward, puffing his chest. "You think you're tough?"

Greg smirked, shaking his head. "Oh, lad. You have no idea."

And then, the first punch flew.

Greg saw it coming, easily dodging to the side before slamming his own fist straight into the guy's stomach.

The bloke stumbled back, wheezing, but his friend was already moving.

Greg felt the next hit connect with his ribs, pain blooming sharp and immediate, but he'd taken worse.

He swung back without hesitation, catching the mouthy one across the jaw, satisfaction flaring hot in his chest when he heard the impact.

Another pair of hands grabbed at him, trying to wrestle him back, but Greg wasn't some drunk idiot looking for a fight.

He was trained. He knew how to hit, how to move, how to finish this fast.

One of them tried to throw him against the wall, but Greg used the momentum, twisting free, driving his elbow into the guy's ribs. A pained grunt, a stumble.

Another hit, a flash of pain as a fist caught his cheek. Greg barely registered it before he shoved forward, grabbing the main idiot by the collar and slamming him against the brick wall.

The guy gasped, stunned, his cocky grin finally wiped clean off his face.

Greg got right in his face, his knuckles tight in the bastard's shirt. "You like running your mouth, yeah?" Greg growled. "Say it again."

The guy's hands scrambled at Greg's wrist, panic flickering in his eyes. "Alright, alright!" he coughed, trying to pull away. "Chill the fuck out!"

Greg didn't let go. "Not so funny now, is it?"

"Jesus - get off me!"

A hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder. "Gregory."

Greg stilled.

The voice was calm, firm, and completely unaffected, like Mycroft was merely asking him to step aside in a crowded hallway.

And somehow, that was enough.

Greg let go, shoving the guy away, watching as he stumbled forward, gasping. The other two were already backing off, looking uncertain, shaken.

Greg wiped a bit of blood from his lip, exhaling sharply. "You're lucky," he muttered, voice still rough. "Go home before I change my mind."

They didn't need telling twice. They hurried off, disappearing down the street without another word.

Greg rolled his shoulders, his body still humming with leftover adrenaline. And then, finally, he turned to face Mycroft.

Who, of course, looked completely unimpressed. "You done?" Mycroft asked, arching a brow.

Greg snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah. Think I got my point across."

Mycroft studied him, gaze flicking over his bruised cheek, his split lip. Then, after a beat, he sighed, "I suppose you expect me to say 'I told you so'."

Greg smirked. "Nah. I expect you to say I look rugged and handsome with a bit of blood on me."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to amusement. "Let's find you some ice, shall we?"

Greg chuckled, wiping more blood from his lip. "Alright, Holmes. Lead the way."

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh, but instead of walking ahead, he did something Greg did not expect. He reached down and took Greg's hand.

Not a dramatic gesture. Not something meant for show. Just a firm, certain grasp. A decision made without hesitation.

Greg blinked. "You holding my hand, Holmes?" he teased, raising an eyebrow.

Mycroft didn't even glance at him. "You're bleeding, Gregory. If left to your own devices, you'll manage to get lost, pick another fight, or collapse from sheer idiocy. This is a preventative measure."

Greg grinned, despite himself. "Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that."

But he didn't pull away. Neither did Mycroft. Instead, he steered them down the street with purpose, weaving through the scattered groups of late-night partiers, Greg easily falling in step beside him.

The cool night air bit at his bruises, but Greg wasn't thinking about that anymore. Because his hand was still in Mycroft's. And Mycroft hadn't let go.

When they reached the curb, Mycroft lifted his free hand to flag down a taxi, still holding onto Greg with the other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Greg felt it then. That slow, creeping realization that this, whatever this was, wasn't a game anymore. And maybe it never had been.

A taxi pulled up, Mycroft told the driver an address. He then released Greg's hand as he reached for the door, motioning for him to get in.

Greg glanced at Mycroft. "You getting in too?"

Mycroft looked at him, gaze sharp, calculating. Then, without a word, he slid into the seat first. Greg huffed a quiet laugh, climbing in after him.

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Greg leaned back, letting the warmth of the cab settle into his aching muscles.

He turned his head, watching Mycroft in the dim glow of passing streetlights. "Where are we going, then?"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, "My place."

Greg's breath hitched.

Well, then.

This night just got a whole lot more interesting.

They arrived outside Mycroft's flat complex.

Greg stepped out of the taxi, glancing up at the building in front of him. It was fancy, but not too posh. Modern, sleek, the kind of place that screamed privacy and efficiency rather than excess.

Of course, it fit Mycroft perfectly.

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets as Mycroft led the way inside, entering the quiet, well-lit stairwell.

The lift ride up was silent, but not uncomfortable. Greg leaned back against the wall, watching Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. He was composed as ever, but there was a different kind of stillness to him tonight.

Not tense. Not unreadable. Just… something Greg couldn't quite put his finger on.

The lift doors opened with a soft chime, and Mycroft stepped out, leading Greg down the hall to a simple but elegant door. He unlocked it with ease, pushing it open.

Mycroft's flat was exactly what Greg expected and somehow, not at all. It was well-furnished but not overdone, every piece of furniture carefully selected, nothing out of place.

But what caught Greg off guard was the warmth of it. It wasn't just cold, minimalist efficiency. The countless bookshelves were full with well-used books.

A bottle of whiskey sat on a side table next to a half-read book, like Mycroft had left it there before heading out.

There were Christmas decorations too. Nothing too flashy, of course just subtle touches. A wreath on the door, a small but perfectly arranged Christmas tree in the corner, a few carefully placed candles.

Mycroft motioned toward the sofa. "Sit," he instructed. "You're bleeding all over my perfectly clean flat."

Greg rolled his eyes but obeyed, collapsing onto the ridiculously comfortable sofa. "You know," he muttered, glancing around, "I always figured your place would look more like a bunker. Just walls of surveillance screens and a vault full of classified secrets."

Mycroft, already heading toward the kitchen, simply said, "I have those elsewhere."

Greg blinked. Then laughed. "You're joking."

"Am I?" Mycroft's voice floated back from the kitchen.

Greg snorted, shaking his head. "Bloody hell, Holmes. You are full of surprises tonight."

Mycroft returned a moment later, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a wrapped ice pack in the other. He handed Greg the ice first, giving him a pointed look. "Apply this before your face swells beyond recognition."

Greg grinned, pressing the ice to his cheek with a wince. "You saying I've got a face worth preserving?"

Mycroft sighed, settling into the armchair across from him, sipping his own whiskey.

"I am saying," he murmured, "that I would rather not have to explain to Cat why I allowed you to leave here looking like a bruised corpse."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "That's what you're worried about?"

Mycroft raised a brow. "Would you want to be on the receiving end of that interrogation?"

Greg considered then with a sigh, he nodded. "Fair point."

The room fell quiet for a moment, the ice cold against his skin. And for the first time all night, Greg felt settled. He wasn't sure if it was the flat, the quiet, the company, but for once, he wasn't in a rush to fill the silence.

And Mycroft didn't seem to mind either. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, then finally spoke. "Why, exactly, did you feel the need to get into a fight with them?"

Greg exhaled, pressing the ice pack more firmly against his cheek. Of course, Mycroft wasn't going to just let that go.

Greg glanced at him, finding that unreadable expression firmly in place - composed, patient, but expectant. He sighed. "Because they were being pricks."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "A common occurrence, unfortunately."

"Yeah, well," Greg muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Didn't mean I was just gonna stand there and let them spew that shit."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "And yet, you accomplished nothing aside from injuring yourself."

Greg scoffed. "You say that like I lost."

"Physically? No." Mycroft set his glass down with deliberate precision. "Logically? You gave them exactly what they wanted, a reaction."

Greg rolled his eyes, adjusting the ice pack. "Yeah, well, sometimes people deserve a reaction."

Mycroft exhaled slowly, watching him for a moment before sitting back, steepling his fingers. "You do realize that no matter how many times you engage with people like that, it will never stop them from existing?"

Greg gave him a flat look. "That supposed to be your way of telling me to keep my head down?"

"Hardly," Mycroft said, tone calm but firm. "I am simply pointing out that your actions tonight were reactive, not strategic. A fight like that does not change minds, nor does it prevent them from behaving the same way again tomorrow."

Greg huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, neither does doing nothing."

Something shifted in Mycroft's expression. Not irritation, not disapproval, just something quieter, something Greg couldn't quite name.

"You assume I do nothing," Mycroft said, voice softer now, but no less certain.

Greg blinked. Something in the way Mycroft said it made Greg stop. Because it wasn't just a passing remark. It was an answer to something Greg hadn't even thought to ask.

Greg sat back, watching him now. "You saying you would've handled things differently?"

Mycroft picked up his whiskey again, taking a measured sip. "Violence," he said, "is often the least effective means of eliminating a problem."

Greg tilted his head. "Right. And what's the most effective?"

Mycroft's lips curved slightly, his gaze steady. "Control."

Greg let out a low chuckle. "Christ, that's ominous."

Mycroft didn't disagree.

Greg took a long sip of whiskey, studying him. "So what, then? You saying I should've just let it go?"

"I am saying," Mycroft replied, "that there are ways of handling people like that which do not require you throwing punches in the street."

Greg smirked. "Yeah? And what's your way?"

Mycroft picked up his glass again, watching Greg over the rim before taking a slow sip. "Would you like a demonstration?"

Greg blinked. Well, that was... interesting. He leaned forward slightly, intrigued despite himself.

"I think I would." Greg murmured, grinning now.

Mycroft's lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smirk, wasn't quite amusement, but was definitely something calculated. "Very well," he said simply, setting his glass aside.

Greg arched an eyebrow. "That's it? No dramatic setup? No PowerPoint presentation?"

Mycroft sighed. "Gregory, if I were to provide an actual demonstration, I would need a target. Seeing as you so efficiently disposed of our previous one, I am currently lacking in that regard."

Greg snorted, shifting slightly on the sofa. "Right, so I just have to take your word for it that you handle these situations all neat and tidy without lifting a finger?"

Mycroft regarded him for a moment, then, without warning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

Greg watched, curious, as Mycroft tapped a few times on the screen. Then, after a few seconds, he turned the phone toward Greg. Greg squinted.

The screen displayed what looked like a news article from a local community forum, with the familiar faces of the three blokes he'd fought earlier plastered on the front. The headline read:

"Local Drunkards Banned from Covent Garden Pubs Following String of Complaints."

Greg blinked. He skimmed the article, his eyes catching phrases like "prior incidents of harassment," "anonymous reports filed", "unruly behaviour finally addressed."

Greg's mouth fell open slightly as he looked back at Mycroft. "You-" He shook his head. "You did this? In, what, an hour?"

Mycroft took a slow sip of whiskey. "Forty-five minutes, actually."

Greg just stared. "You - what, pulled some strings? Called in some favours?"

Mycroft didn't answer immediately. He simply leaned back in his chair, completely composed. "There are many ways to eliminate problems, Gregory," he said smoothly.

Greg let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Bloody hell, Holmes," he muttered. "That's… actually impressive."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "Are you disappointed I didn't have them deported?"

Greg grinned. "I mean, it would've been funnier."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, a quiet, amused sound. Greg looked at the screen again, still a little in awe. "So, just like that, they're banned?"

"Just like that," Mycroft confirmed.

Greg shook his head, chuckling. "And here I thought punching them was satisfying."

"Violence is messy, inefficient." Mycroft reached for his glass again, fingers graceful, precise. "This? This is permanent."

Greg let that settle for a moment. Because Mycroft was right. He hadn't just dealt with the issue. He'd erased it. Greg exhaled, taking a long sip of whiskey, his mind buzzing.

"You know," he said after a beat, "I think I'm starting to see why people are afraid of you."

Mycroft smiled, a small, knowing thing. "Good," he murmured.

Greg huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "You're a piece of work, Holmes," he muttered, setting his glass down.

"And yet," Mycroft replied smoothly, "here you are."

Yes, here he was and he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon. Greg leaned forward, setting his now-empty whiskey glass on the coffee table with a soft clink before looking straight at Mycroft.

"And you know," Greg said, voice casual, but his expression anything but, "I'm not just here for the ice."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, unreadable as ever. "No?"

Greg smirked. "No."

He held Mycroft's gaze, letting the moment stretch, letting the tension settle thick and heavy between them.

"I seem to remember," Greg continued, voice dropping slightly, "that we were in the middle of something before we got rudely interrupted."

He saw it - the flicker in Mycroft's expression. The way his fingers twitched slightly against his glass, the way his breath subtly shifted.

Greg leaned back against the sofa, watching him closely. "So, what do you say, Holmes?"

Mycroft exhaled softly, setting his own glass down with slow precision. "You are remarkably persistent," he murmured.

Greg grinned. "Comes with the job."

Mycroft stood. Greg's breath hitched, just slightly. Mycroft took his time, smoothing down his sleeves, adjusting his cufflinks - not rushed, not hesitant, just deliberate. Then, he stepped toward Greg, stopping just in front of where he sat on the sofa.

Greg tilted his head up, smirk still playing at his lips.

"So?" Greg murmured, looking up at him. "You gonna make me wait forever?"

Mycroft's lips twitched slightly, amused. "Impatient," he noted.

Greg shrugged, utterly unapologetic. "We've danced around this long enough, don't you think?"

Mycroft reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against Greg's chin, tilting his face up just slightly. Greg's smirk faltered, just for a second, because… oh… this was really happening.

The air felt thick, electric, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. Greg exhaled slowly, waiting, watching. And then, finally Mycroft closed the distance.

And this time there was no one to interrupt them.

The kiss was measured at first - controlled, deliberate, as if Mycroft was calculating every movement, every angle.

Greg, however, had no patience for restraint. He let the ice pack slip from his fingers, reaching up instead to grasp the front of Mycroft's shirt, pulling him in, deepening the kiss before Mycroft had the chance to overthink it.

That was when something shifted. Mycroft exhaled sharply through his nose, his hands moving with purpose. One settled against Greg's jaw, thumb grazing his cheek, cool from the ice. The other braced against the arm of the sofa, caging Greg in without quite touching him.

Greg felt heat bloom under his skin, pulse kicking up a notch. Because this wasn't careful anymore. This wasn't just a test. This was Mycroft kissing him back.

Greg sighed into it, tilting his head, his fingers curling into the fabric of Mycroft's shirt, grounding himself.

Mycroft was steady and controlled, but Greg could feel it. The tension in his grip, the way he hadn't moved away, the way his breath hitched just slightly when Greg nipped at his lower lip.

And then, as if remembering himself, Mycroft pulled back.

Greg chased after him for a second, but Mycroft's hand on his chest stopped him. Not forceful, just firm.

Greg blinked up at him, breathing hard, lips tingling. "You stopping already?" he murmured, grinning despite himself.

Mycroft huffed out a slow breath, his thumb still resting just below Greg's jaw. "This is already… highly unwise."

Greg chuckled, eyes flicking between Mycroft's gaze and his lips. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Mycroft swallowed, his voice just slightly off its usual even keel. "And yet, I find myself not particularly inclined to care."

Greg grinned, wicked and pleased. "Good."

Then he tugged Mycroft back in. This time, Mycroft let him.

The kiss was less controlled now, more instinct than calculation. Mycroft's fingers dug slightly into Greg's jaw, like he wasn't quite aware he was doing it.

Greg hummed in satisfaction, his own hands moving. One slipping up Mycroft's chest, the other gripping his hip, feeling the tension coiled in his stance.

And just as Greg was thinking about how much further he could push this. Mycroft suddenly broke away again, stepping back and clearing his throat.

Greg blinked up at him, slightly dazed. The air between them was charged, thick with something unspoken but undeniable.

Mycroft straightened his jacket, smoothing down his sleeves, visibly composing himself.

Greg smirked. "So, what's the verdict?"

Mycroft's lips twitched slightly. "You are," he said, his voice carefully even, "an insufferable man, Gregory."

Greg grinned, leaning back on the sofa like he had all the time in the world. "And yet," he said, mirroring Mycroft's words from earlier, "Here you are."

Mycroft exhaled slowly and smirked. "Yes," he murmured. "Here I am."

Greg's grin widened, but his mind caught onto something else entirely. He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. "So…" he said, lazily stretching an arm along the back of the sofa. "Since when do you call me Gregory?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his expression cool and unreadable. "Since when do you object to being addressed by your given name?"

Greg huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I don't. I just…" He studied Mycroft for a moment, then smirked. "You only started doing it tonight."

Mycroft didn't confirm or deny it. Which, of course, only made Greg more curious.

Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Go on, then. What's the reason? Some kind of psychological tactic? A power move?"

Mycroft exhaled through his nose - not quite a sigh, not quite amusement.

"I simply find it suits you," he said smoothly. "That and I suspect it unsettles you just enough to keep you from becoming insufferably overconfident."

Greg barked out a laugh. "Right. Sure, mate. That's what it is."

Mycroft took a slow sip of his whiskey, expression infuriatingly unreadable.

Greg watched him closely, still smirking. "See, I think it's something else."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly. "Do enlighten me."

Greg leaned back again, casual as ever. "I think you like the way it sounds."

For the first time all night, Mycroft's composure faltered, just for a second. It was quick, almost imperceptible. The slight twitch of his fingers against his glass, the almost invisible tightening of his jaw.

Greg saw it. And that was all the confirmation he needed. His grin turned downright smug. "You do, don't you?"

Mycroft set his glass down with deliberate precision, giving Greg a long, slow stare. "Gregory," he said, softer this time, but with intent.

And Greg felt it. Like a slow burn curling at the edges of his skin.

Mycroft tilted his head. "Would you like me to stop?"

Greg swallowed. Because, suddenly, he wasn't so sure anymore. "...Nah," he muttered after a beat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I can live with it."

Mycroft smirked victoriously. Greg groaned, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"And yet," Mycroft said again, reaching for his drink, "here you are."

Greg picked up the ice pack again, holding it to his face. The cold bit into his bruised skin, but at least it numbed some of the dull ache setting in. He sighed, shifting on the sofa, watching Mycroft over the rim of the ice pack.

"So," Greg drawled, "what now, then?"

Mycroft studied him, then reached for his phone, tapping the screen with precise efficiency. "I'm calling you a cab," Mycroft said simply. "You need rest."

Greg huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "That your way of kicking me out?"

"Merely ensuring you don't make an already foolish evening worse by staying awake longer than necessary." Mycroft didn't look up from his phone, his voice calm, measured, perfectly in control.

Greg smirked, shifting the ice pack slightly. "You could just say you're worried about me, you know."

Mycroft's lips twitched, just slightly. "You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself," he murmured. "My concern is purely logistical."

Greg grinned, tilting his head. "Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, clearly not rising to the bait. "Your cab will be here in five minutes," he said, placing his phone back on the table.

Greg sighed dramatically, letting his head tip back against the sofa. "Five minutes? Might as well get comfortable, then."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Gregory, don't test my patience."

Greg chuckled, adjusting the ice pack again. "Alright, alright. I'll behave."

But as he sat there, letting the last of the adrenaline from the night fade, he realized something. He didn't actually want to leave. And, judging by the fact that Mycroft had not once rushed him out the door, he wasn't sure Mycroft wanted him to, either.

But neither of them said it. Because that was a conversation for another night. One where Greg wasn't bleeding and bruised from picking a fight in the street.

So instead, he just sat there, letting the silence stretch, feeling something settle between them.

And for once, he didn't feel the need to fill it.

Greg's phone buzzed against his thigh as the cab rolled through the quiet streets of London. He glanced at the screen, Matt's name flashing across it. Greg sighed, already bracing himself, before swiping to answer.

"Alright, alright, I know," Greg said before Matt could even speak.

"Mate, where the hell did you go?" Matt's voice came through the line, half amused, half exasperated.

Greg smirked, shifting in his seat. "Oh, you know. Got into a fight, left the club, ended up at Mycroft Holmes's flat. The usual."

Silence. Then Matt said, "You what."

Greg grinned, rubbing his temple. "You heard me."

"I-" Matt stopped, clearly processing. "Hang on. Back it up. You got into a fight?"

Greg exhaled through his nose, adjusting the ice pack against his cheek. "Yeah, yeah. Some arseholes were running their mouths outside the club. Things escalated. You know how it is."

Matt groaned. "Greg, for fuck's sake-"

Greg chuckled. "Relax, mate. I handled it."

"Yeah, that's what worries me," Matt muttered. "You alright?"

Greg paused, glancing out the cab window at the empty streets, then at his reflection in the glass. Bruised, sore but alright.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I'm good."

Matt let out a slow breath. "And Mycroft?"

Greg's stomach flipped slightly. "Yeah?"

Matt's voice was pointed now, too knowing for Greg's liking. "You just casually mentioned you ended up at his place, and I feel like that should've been the first part of this story, not an afterthought."

Greg smirked, leaning his head back against the seat. "Well, you know. Needed somewhere to ice my face."

A long pause followed.

"Did you finally kiss him?"

Greg closed his eyes, grinning. "He almost did."

"Almost?"

Greg exhaled. "Yeah. We got interrupted before he could. But later, at his place..." He trailed off, smirking at the memory.

Matt let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell. And now he's just… what? Letting you go home?"

Greg chuckled. "What, you think I should've stayed the night?"

"Yes!"

Greg laughed. "Well, I didn't. And before you start, no, not because I didn't want to."

Matt sighed. "So what now, then?"

Greg stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past. "I just need to get some bloody sleep. And then we see what happens next."

Matt groaned. "You're impossible."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah. And where are you, then? Still at the club?"

Matt let out a huffed laugh, followed by the distinct sound of a lighter flicking. "Nah. I'm outside my flat, having a smoke. Just kicked the guy I took home out."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."

Matt groaned again, more dramatically this time. "Don't remind me. What an absolute disappointment."

Greg smirked. "That bad, huh?"

Matt exhaled sharply, probably blowing out a long drag of smoke. "Mate. I could've had a more exciting time reorganizing my fridge."

Greg laughed. "Jesus. That bad?"

"Worse." Matt sighed, muttering something under his breath. "Look, I don't expect fireworks every time, but at least pretend to be interested in the situation, you know?"

Greg snorted. "Did he just lie there?"

"Worse," Matt muttered. "He asked if I was enjoying myself while clearly not putting in any effort."

Greg let out a choked laugh, shaking his head. "God, mate. You really know how to pick 'em."

"Shut up," Matt grumbled. "It's not like I had a bloody Mycroft Holmes turning up at my door at midnight."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Alright, that's enough of that."

"Oh no," Matt continued, voice dripping with sarcasm. "'Oh, I almost kissed Mycroft but got interrupted. Then he took me to his flat and took care of me. Then he held my hand. Then we definitely kissed later but now I'm playing it cool because I'm Greg and I'm incapable of admitting I actually like someone.'"

Greg groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "You are the worst person I know."

Matt cackled. "I love you too darling."

"Alright, mate, I'll let you wallow in your disappointing shag in peace," Greg said.

"Appreciated," Matt replied, sighing dramatically. "Guess I'll just die alone."

"Sounds about right."

Matt snorted. "Get some sleep, Lestrade. And try not to overthink your posh boyfriend too much."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Goodnight, Matt."

Matt hung up with one last laugh, and Greg stared at his phone for a second before tucking it back into his pocket.

The cab was already nearing his flat. And despite the bruises, the exhaustion, and the ridiculous conversation he'd just had he found himself smirking to himself.

Because, yeah. Tonight had been a hell of a night. And something told him. Things were only just getting started.

Chapter Text

The morning they reopened the shop, Cat took one look at Greg's face and nearly dropped the tray of baked goods.

"Gregory Lestrade, what the bloody hell happened to you?!"

Greg barely had time to brace himself before she stormed over, setting the tray down with a thud, her eyes wide with shock and outrage.

Greg sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Morning, Cat."

"Don't you 'morning' me!" she snapped, reaching up to tilt his chin, inspecting the bruise blooming along his cheekbone and the split on his lip. "You look like you got into a bar fight!"

Greg winced. "Ah, well… funny thing about that-"

Cat gasped, "Greg!"

Greg held up his hands, defensive. "Before you start, I won."

"That is not the point!" Cat smacked his arm, scowling. "What were you thinking?! Getting into a fight at your age-"

Greg groaned. "Oh, come on, I'm not some pensioner!"

Cat gave him a look so sharp it could have cut glass. "I don't care how young you think you are, you absolute idiot. What. Happened?"

Greg exhaled, leaning back against the counter, knowing there was no way out of this. So he told her the whole thing.

The blokes outside the club. The insults. The way he'd tried to walk away at first. And then, the part where he hadn't.

Cat sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "I swear, Greg, one day you're gonna get yourself killed being a stubborn, hot-headed fool."

Greg smirked. "What can I say? I don't take kindly to arseholes."

Cat shook her head, but her expression softened slightly. "I get it. Really, I do. But please, next time? Just… don't do it alone."

Greg blinked. "What, you offering to fight my battles for me?"

Cat scoffed. "No, you idiot. Just next time, let someone have your back."

Greg hesitated for half a second. Because, in a way, he hadn't been alone. Not really.

Cat studied him closely, eyes narrowing slightly. "There's something you're not telling me."

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"Absolutely not. Now, spill."

Greg hesitated. Then, casually - too casually - he muttered, "Mycroft was there."

Cat froze. Then, slowly, her expression shifted from suspicion to something else entirely. Something wicked.

Greg immediately regretted speaking.

"Oh," she said, crossing her arms. "Now that's interesting."

Greg groaned. "Don't start-"

"I'm just saying." She smirked, tilting her head. "You get into a fight, and where do you end up? At his place."

Greg grabbed a mug and pretended to focus very hard on making himself a coffee. "Cat-"

"You kissed him, didn't you?"

Greg choked on absolutely nothing, coughing into his sleeve. "Bloody hell, would you keep your voice down?"

Cat gasped, clapping her hands together. "I knew it!"

Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Technically, he kissed me."

That shut her up for half a second. Then she let out an excited noise that was far too loud for this hour of the morning.

Greg glared. "Behave."

Cat grinned, absolutely delighted. "Oh, I am having the best day ever."

Greg groaned, already regretting everything. "You are never going to let this go, are you?"

Cat beamed. "Not a chance, dear."

Greg sighed, shaking his head, but despite himself, he was smiling, too.

Throughout the day, Greg got a couple of funny remarks from the regulars about his face.

"Bloody hell, Greg," one of them, Mrs. Holloway, had said as he handed over her usual chamomile tea. "You look like you lost a bet with a frying pan."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "Something like that."

Another customer, Charlie, who ran the bookstore down the street, grinned as he leaned against the counter. "You should see the other guy, right?"

Greg smirked, wiping down the espresso machine. "Damn right."

"Good. Would hate to think someone got one over on you."

Greg huffed a laugh, rolling his shoulders. He let them have their fun, let the teasing roll off him, because honestly?

All he cared about was 4 PM.

Because 4 PM meant Mycroft.

And Greg had been thinking about him all damn day.

It wasn't like he hadn't heard from him at all. Mycroft had sent a few short messages over the last couple of days. Nothing particularly deep, just little check-ins.

{ I assume you have managed not to get into another street brawl? – M }

{ Don't sound so hopeful, Holmes x }

{ Hope implies uncertainty – M }

Greg had laughed at that one, but that was about the extent of their contact. Because Mycroft had been busy.

Greg wasn't surprised. Of course Mycroft's world had gone back to business as usual after New Year's. He probably had a dozen things pulling him in different directions.

And Greg wasn't the type to chase. But he couldn't ignore the stupid little twist in his chest at the lack of... whatever the hell this thing between them had been turning into.

So, yeah. 4 PM mattered.

And when the time finally rolled around, Greg was already looking toward the door before the bell even chimed. And when it finally did. Greg let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Because there, standing in the doorway, coat perfectly tailored, expression composed but eyes just a little tired, was Mycroft Holmes.

Greg smirked, leaning against the counter. "Look what the cat dragged in," he hummed.

Mycroft sighed, stepping inside. "I believe I am here of my own volition, Gregory."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah? You sure about that? Thought maybe I'd have to put out a missing persons report."

Mycroft gave him a look, but there was the faintest trace of something softer in his expression. Something that made Greg's smirk shift into something else entirely. Something warmer.

"So," Greg said, straightening up. "You want your usual, or another gingerbread latte?"

Mycroft adjusted his gloves. "A tea would be preferable."

Greg chuckled. "Alright, Holmes. One tea, coming up."

And as he turned to make it, he could feel Mycroft's eyes on him. Like maybe, just maybe - he'd been waiting for this, too.

Greg was in the back, stacking shelves with the deliveries, when suddenly firm, steady hands held onto his hips.

Greg barely had time to react before he was turned around, pushed gently but decisively back against the shelves.

And then Mycroft's mouth was on his. No words. No hesitation. Just heat, immediacy, the sharp edge of restraint finally snapping.

Greg let out a muffled sound of surprise, but it melted instantly into something else - something hungry, something eager, something that had been simmering between them for far too long.

He grabbed onto of Mycroft's shirt, pulling him in closer, swallowing the low exhale Mycroft let out as their lips moved in sync, deepening, demanding.

Greg wasn't used to this from Mycroft. Not just the kiss, but the way he moved, the way he took. The way he wasn't thinking for once, just acting.

Greg's hands slid up his chest, gripping the back of his neck, tilting his head just enough to take control.

Mycroft let him.

For about three seconds.

Then, just as Greg was about to smirk against his lips, Mycroft's fingers tightened on his waist, pressing him even more firmly against the shelves, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Greg let out a quiet, satisfied hum, his fingers threading through Mycroft's hair, loving the way he finally let himself have this.

Because, bloody hell, this was good.

The tension that had been between them for months, the charged conversations, the teasing, the careful control, all of it was here, pouring into this moment, into the way Mycroft was kissing him like he meant it.

Like he'd been waiting for it.

Greg felt his pulse roar in his ears, the delivery boxes all but forgotten. But just as he was about to take things even further Mycroft pulled back.

Not fully, not far, just enough for their lips to part, just enough for Greg to feel his breath on his skin.

Greg blinked, a little dazed, a little wrecked already. "Bloody hell," he muttered, his hands still gripping Mycroft's neck. "What was that for?"

Mycroft's gaze was sharp, focused, entirely unreadable - except for the way his pupils were slightly blown. "I had intended to say something first," Mycroft murmured, his voice lower, rougher than usual.

Greg huffed a breathless laugh. "Yeah? What, exactly?"

A pause - then Mycroft's lips twitched slightly. "That I was done waiting to kiss you again."

Greg's stomach flipped. He exhaled, grinning like an idiot. "Well, mate, you really know how to make a statement."

Mycroft's hands were still on his waist, still grounding him.

Greg leaned in again, brushing their noses together, teasing, playful. "Any other declarations you'd like to make?" he murmured.

Mycroft hummed. "Several."

Greg smirked. "Yeah?"

And just like that Mycroft kissed him again. Because apparently, he wasn't done proving his point.

Greg barely had time to process it. The way Mycroft was all in now, no hesitation, no calculation, just intent. It was deliberate, consuming, the kind of kiss that demanded attention, that made Greg's knees feel a little weak, that sent something sharp and electric shooting through his chest.

And then just as quickly as it all began, it ended.

Before Greg could drag him back in, before he could even think about making some cheeky remark, Mycroft simply pulled away. Not rushed, not flustered - just… done.

Like that had been his entire goal from the start.

Greg blinked, dazed, "The hell-?" he started, voice still breathless.

But Mycroft had already straightened his posture, adjusted his sleeves, and smoothed down the front of his shirt like nothing had happened.

"I have work to do," Mycroft said, tone perfectly even, perfectly composed.

Greg stared. "Are you-, are you serious right now?"

Mycroft simply tilted his head, as if Greg was the one being unreasonable. "Yes," he said smoothly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Greg let out a choked laugh, running a hand through his hair. "You cannot just do that. Just bloody wreck me against a shelf, then go back to work like we just discussed the bloody weather!"

Mycroft arched a single, infuriatingly elegant eyebrow. "I just did."

Greg gawked. "Oh my God. You are… you are actually unbelievable."

Mycroft simply straightened his tie. "I have important business to finish," he remarked, already stepping back toward the front of the shop.

Greg gaped after him, still pressed against the shelves, still very much not recovered from what just happened. "What so you're just leaving?"

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder, completely unbothered. "Unless you require further assistance with the shelving," he said, voice as smooth as ever, "I believe we are both quite occupied."

Greg opened his mouth, then shut it again. Because, honestly? He wasn't even sure what to say.

Mycroft gave him one last look, something that might have been amusement, might have been satisfaction, before disappearing into the shop.

Greg, still gripping the edge of the shelf for dear life, let out a long, slow exhale. Then he dropped his head back against the wood, groaning. "Christ, I'm in trouble."

Later that night, as Greg got ready for bed, he grabbed his phone and typed out a message.

{ I cannot believe you snogged me in the bloody storage room… and still left before I finished my last song x }

He hit send before he could overthink it, leaning back against his pillows, waiting.

The reply didn't take long.

{ I fail to see how those two things are connected – M }

Greg huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

{ Because, Holmes, if you're gonna start something, you might as well see it through x }

{ Are you suggesting I should have remained until closing? – M }

Greg smirked at his screen.

{ I'm suggesting you should have at least had the decency to let me bask in my victory a little longer. ;) x }

Greg could almost picture Mycroft considering his response, probably sipping some ridiculous expensive tea while debating how to word it.

Then, finally the typing bubbles appeared.

{ Victory? Interesting perspective, Gregory. I do not recall this being a contest – M }

{ Everything's a contest with you, mate x }

{ And yet, here you are. The one texting me before bed – M }

Greg stared at the screen for a second, his smirk faltering slightly. Because, well. Yeah.

{ Alright, fine. I'll let you have that one… x }

{ How generous of you – M }

{ I know, right? My generosity knows no bounds x }

{ Speaking of which… I expect you to stay till after closing tomorrow x }

The typing bubble appeared - then disappeared which made Greg smirk. Oh, Mycroft was thinking about it. And that was already a win.

{ Oh? And what exactly do you expect to gain from such an arrangement? – M }

Greg grinned, settling deeper into his pillow.

{ A fully completed set list, for one x }

{ Ah. Of course. Your music – M }

{ Yes, Holmes. My music. You know, that thing I do almost every night that you conveniently leave before I finish? x }

{ I hardly see how my departure impacts your ability to perform – M }

{ Oh, come on. You can't honestly tell me you don't want to hear how it ends x }

{ Are you asking or demanding, Gregory? – M }

{ You tell me. ;) x }

{ Fine. I shall stay – M }

Greg pumped his fist in the air, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself.

{ Now was that so hard? x }

{ I will reserve judgment until I see if the performance is worth my time – M }

{ Oh, trust me. It will be. Because if you stay, that means I get another chance to snog you after x }

The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Greg smirked, waiting.

{ That remains to be seen – M }

Greg chuckled, shaking his head.

{ Oh, Holmes. You really think I'm going to let you leave without proving my point? x }

{ Very well. I shall stay – M }

Greg chuckled, tossing his phone onto his bedside table before shutting off the lamp. He was buzzing with anticipation, because tomorrow was going to be very fun.

Cat wouldn't stop nagging him. Because, according to her, Greg looked and behaved like a lovestruck teenager.

"Honestly, dear," she said as she stacked fresh croissants onto the display, "it's painful to watch. You've been grinning like an idiot all morning."

Greg rolled his eyes, leaning against the counter with his coffee. "I have not."

Cat shot him a flat look. "You have. And don't think I didn't notice you checking your phone every two minutes like some poor sod waiting for a text from their crush."

Greg huffed. "Maybe I was just checking the time."

"You wear a bloody watch."

Greg scowled. "Alright, fine, so what if I was checking my phone? You ever think maybe I have important things to deal with?"

Cat snorted, not even looking up as she wiped the counter. "Oh yeah, I'm sure you're just drowning in classified government business. Face it, dear. You're completely gone for him."

Greg took a long sip of his coffee, if only to avoid answering.

Cat watched him smugly. "See? You're not even denying it."

Greg set his mug down with a little more force than necessary. "And why should I? It's not like I'm trying to hide anything."

Cat gasped, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. "Did Gregory Lestrade just admit to having feelings? Stop the presses!"

Greg groaned, rubbing his temples. "Jesus Christ, Cat, don't make a thing of it."

"Oh, dear," she said, patting his cheek with a smirk, "it's already a thing."

Greg grumbled something unintelligible, but the truth was, she wasn't wrong.

Because every time his phone buzzed, he couldn't help but check.

And every time he thought about 4 PM, about Mycroft actually staying until closing, about what might happen after… well.

If that made him look like a lovestruck idiot, then fine. He could live with that. Even if it meant never hearing the end of it from Cat.

Today was a slow day. The usual morning rush had come and gone, the afternoon had been quiet, and by the time Greg finally picked up his guitar, the shop was nearly empty.

Nearly, because Mycroft remained.

Greg tried not to let himself think about it too much.

Tried not to make a big deal out of the fact that Mycroft was still here, seated in his usual spot, fingers resting lightly on his teacup, gaze unreadable but undeniably present.

For months, Mycroft had made a habit of leaving before Greg played his final song.

But tonight he stayed. On Greg's request.

Greg sat on the small stage, adjusting his guitar strap, fingers idly strumming a few chords as he exhaled slowly, settling in. And then he played.

At first, he just played what felt natural, easy - something low, soft, the kind of song that filled the space without demanding attention. But the longer he played, the more he let himself sink into it, into the weight of the notes, into the way the strings hummed under his fingertips.

He wasn't playing for the customers anymore. He wasn't playing to fill the silence. He was playing because Mycroft was still here. Because, for the first time, Mycroft was actually listening.

Greg glanced up mid-song, catching sight of him over the warm glow of the shop.

Mycroft was watching him, his expression calm but focused, the way he looked when he was solving a puzzle, reading between the lines, picking apart something no one else could see.

Greg felt something in his chest tighten, shift, settle. So he kept playing. Letting the moment stretch between them, letting the quiet mean something. And when he played his final note, letting it ring out into the near-empty shop, he didn't rush to fill the silence.

He just let it sit there, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he looked up at Mycroft who simply tilted his head slightly, considering, before he said "Acceptable."

Greg barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "You are actually the worst," he muttered, setting his guitar down.

Mycroft smirked. "And yet, here you are."

Greg huffed, standing and stretching. "Right. Shops closed."

Mycroft stood, picking up his empty tea cup and plate with the same quiet precision he did everything.

Greg watched as Mycroft walked to the counter, setting them down neatly. Without a word, Greg took them, his fingers brushing against the porcelain as he moved toward the back room.

But before he could disappear inside, he heard the soft sound of footsteps behind him.

Greg glanced over his shoulder. And there was Mycroft. Following him.

Greg raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "Didn't realize you were part of the clean-up crew now, Holmes."

Mycroft's expression remained composed, unreadable. "I merely wished to continue our conversation in a quieter setting."

Greg huffed a quiet laugh, stepping into the back room, setting the cup and plate down in the sink. "Right, because the two other people in the shop were too much of a crowd for you?"

Mycroft didn't respond immediately.

Greg turned, wiping his hands on a dish towel, only to realize Mycroft had stepped further inside, closing the door behind him.

And just like that, something shifted. The air between them felt charged, heavy with something unspoken but undeniable.

Greg leaned back against the counter, watching him carefully. "Alright, then. What's on your mind?"

Mycroft didn't speak right away. Instead, he took a slow step forward.

Greg stayed exactly where he was, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter, waiting.

Mycroft came to a stop just in front of him, his gaze flickering over Greg's face - searching, calculating, considering.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Mycroft said softly.

Greg smirked, tilting his head. "What, spending time alone with you in the back room of my shop?"

"Yes." Mycroft answered

Greg chuckled, but he could feel it now. The weight of the moment. The way Mycroft was watching him. Waiting.

Greg's smirk softened slightly, his voice dropping lower. "Can't say I mind it, no."

For a second, neither of them moved. The only sound was the faint hum of the shop beyond the closed door, the distant clatter of a coffee cup being set down on a table.

Then without a word, without hesitation, Mycroft reached out, his fingers curling around the front of Greg's shirt, pulling him in.

And just like that, they were kissing again.

This time, it wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate or stolen or hurried. This time, it was deliberate. Measured. A choice.

Greg sighed into it, his hands gripping Mycroft's waist, holding him steady as their mouths moved together, slow and intent.

Mycroft wasn't just kissing him. He was letting himself want this.

Greg lost himself in the kiss. It was easy - so easy to let everything else fade away, to forget where they were, to forget about the shop, the dishes in the sink, the slow hum of life just beyond the closed door.

Because right now, there was only this.

Only Mycroft. Only the way his fingers curled into Greg's shirt, steady but firm, like he was grounding himself. Only the way he kissed with purpose. Slow, controlled, but with an edge of something Greg was starting to recognize.

Something Mycroft had spent months keeping carefully restrained. But not now, his lips parted just slightly against Greg's, his breath warm and steady, his hands anchoring them together.

And Greg let himself fall into it.

He slid a hand along Mycroft's waist, fingers pressing lightly at his back, pulling him in, deepening the kiss just enough to test the waters. And Mycroft let him.

Not just let him, he leaned into it.

Greg felt the quiet unravelling of tension, the way Mycroft responded just a fraction slower than before, less calculated, more instinctive.

That was what did it.

That was what sent a slow thrill curling through Greg's chest. Because this wasn't just Mycroft Holmes letting himself be kissed. This was Mycroft kissing him back. Wanting this.

And Greg, for all his teasing, for all his pushing, for all the waiting and dancing around whatever the hell this was - was not about to let that go unnoticed.

His fingers tightened, gripping the fabric of his suit jacket, pulling him in with just enough force to make a point. And Mycroft responded in kind, his grip tightening slightly on Greg's shirt, his breath hitching just barely, just enough.

Greg wasn't sure how long they stayed like that - seconds, minutes - but it wasn't enough. Would probably never be enough. But eventually, reluctantly, Mycroft pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to meet Greg's gaze, his breath still warm against Greg's lips.

Greg exhaled, his hands still resting against Mycroft's back, his heart hammering far too fast for someone who should be used to this by now.

But, Christ, he wasn't used to this. Not even a little. Because this wasn't some drunken mistake, wasn't some impulsive decision made in the heat of the moment.

This was intentional. Deliberate. Chosen.

And the way Mycroft was looking at him now - steady, considering, entirely unreadable but so completely present - made Greg's stomach twist in ways he wasn't prepared for.

Greg let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, mate," he murmured, grinning despite himself. "You sure know how to make an argument."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly.

"Am I to assume," he said, voice still composed but softer than before, "that you are finally convinced?"

Greg smirked. "Oh, I dunno. I might need a little more evidence before I make a final ruling."

Mycroft exhaled through his nose, a quiet huff of amusement. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he simply murmured, "Noted."

"Well," he murmured, voice low but playful, "you planning to stick around until I close up, or do you need to dash off to something terribly important?"

Mycroft didn't immediately answer. Instead, he studied Greg for a moment - assessing, calculating, considering.

Greg knew that look. It was the same one Mycroft always gave him before deciding how much to reveal, how much to allow, how much to let slip.

But this time, Greg could see something different. Because Mycroft wasn't just thinking about a decision. He was letting himself want something.

And Greg wasn't about to let him overthink his way out of it.

Greg tilted his head slightly, grinning. "C'mon, mate. What's the verdict?"

"I suppose," Mycroft said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate ease, "that I can stay."

Greg grinned, heart kicking up despite himself. "Yeah?"

Mycroft lifted a single brow. "Unless you have an objection?"

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "Not even a little bit."

Mycroft nodded once, satisfied. "Then I shall remain."

Greg huffed a laugh, stepping back slightly, but not before reaching out, fingers brushing Mycroft's wrist in an easy, casual touch.

"Alright, Holmes," he said, feeling entirely too pleased with himself. "Guess you get to see what proper closing-up procedures look like."

Mycroft sighed, as if deeply put upon.

"How thrilling," he muttered.

But Greg caught it - the way Mycroft's lips twitched slightly, the way his posture didn't shift toward the exit.

And yeah. Greg could pretend this was just another night at the shop. But it wasn't. Because Mycroft Holmes was staying.

Greg moved through his usual closing tasks, methodical and practiced. He swept behind the counter, wiped down the tables, straightened the chairs, and restocked the napkins and sugar jars. It was his rhythm - the one that ended every day and made the next one start just a little easier.

And the whole time, Mycroft Holmes sat at his usual table, tea long gone, coat draped neatly over the back of his chair, quietly observing.

Of course, Mycroft couldn't just sit silently. That would be far too easy.

"Gregory," came his smooth voice as Greg was wiping down the pastry display. "You missed the corner of that shelf. Just beneath the second tier."

Greg glanced over his shoulder. "I didn't miss it. I'm circling back."

"Mm. Of course you are."

Greg smirked, finishing the shelf deliberately slowly, then made his way to the windows. "You're not usually this chatty after hours," he said, grabbing the cloth. "Trying to make yourself useful?"

"I'm trying to ensure your standards don't slip simply because you've been… distracted."

Greg barked a laugh. "Oh, I've been plenty distracted. But the shop still looks great, thanks."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, the picture of elegant leisure. "A lesser man would take offence to being referred to as a distraction."

Greg turned, cloth in hand, grinning. "Lucky for me, you're not a lesser man."

Mycroft's lips twitched, but he said nothing and just watched as Greg moved to the chalkboard near the entrance and wiped off the daily menu with one broad swipe.

"Your penmanship is abysmal, by the way," Mycroft added, ever helpful.

Greg paused, glancing back with a raised eyebrow. "Do you want me to hand you the chalk tomorrow and let you write it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft replied, utterly deadpan. "That's what you're here for."

Greg laughed again, shaking his head as he headed back behind the counter. He started counting the cash register, eyes flicking up occasionally to find Mycroft still watching him, head tilted slightly like he was... studying him.

"What?" Greg finally asked, not looking up from the till.

Mycroft didn't answer right away. He then simply said, "You're very good at this."

Greg's hands paused for a second. He looked up. "At what? Running a shop?"

"Yes," Mycroft said, and his tone was different now -gentler, more honest than Greg expected. "At this. At making people feel comfortable. Seen. Like they belong here."

Greg blinked. For once, he didn't know what to say. So he just gave a small smile, the kind that didn't try to hide how much the words meant.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "That means more than you think."

Mycroft nodded once. "I know."

Just as Greg reached for his coat and turned off the last switch behind the counter, the shop fell into a comfortable hush, lit only by the soft, ambient glow from the fairy lights still strung around the windows. Greg meant to take them down the next day.

He glanced toward the door where Mycroft stood, already slipping on his gloves, the final quiet act of a long, strange, and somehow perfect day.

But then Greg's gaze drifted past him and froze. Outside, just beyond the glass, partially obscured by the reflection of the lights, stood a figure.

Still. Watching. A tall silhouette, shrouded in the shadows just off the curb.

Greg's posture changed instantly - shoulders tensing, his hand reflexively brushing against the counter's edge, eyes narrowing as instinct kicked in. Someone was watching them.

"Mycroft," Greg said quietly, his voice losing all traces of teasing.

Mycroft followed his line of sight without a word, eyes landing on the figure beyond the window. For a moment, neither of them moved. And the figure it didn't either.

Just stood there, half-lit by the golden glow spilling out from the shop, head tilted just slightly, as if they were trying to listen.

Greg stepped forward. "You see that?"

"I do," Mycroft said, calm but alert, his voice taking on that particular edge Greg now recognized as professional precision.

"Do you recognize them?"

"No," Mycroft answered immediately. "But I doubt they're here for the croissants."

Greg exhaled through his nose, already moving toward the door, his hand resting just below the lock.

"Gregory."

He stopped, glancing back at Mycroft.

"Wait," Mycroft said quietly, "Just… wait a moment."

But as he spoke, the figure outside took a step back - then another - and melted into the night.

Gone.

Greg threw open the door, stepping out onto the street, eyes sweeping the sidewalk. Nothing. No trace. No sound. Just the lingering, cold night air.

He stood there a moment, jaw tight, hands clenched. When he finally turned back toward the shop, Mycroft hadn't moved from the doorway.

Greg stepped past him, back into the warmth, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

"You think that's your world bleeding into mine again?" he asked.

Mycroft's jaw tensed slightly. "I think," he said carefully, "that whoever they were… they weren't just curious passersby."

Greg nodded once, slowly. "Right."

And suddenly, the quiet safety of the shop didn't feel quite so untouched anymore.

Mycroft turned from the door to face Greg, "It's best if I leave now," he said quietly.

Greg, still standing in the center of the shop, blinked. He wasn't surprised. Not really.

"Right," he muttered, trying to keep his tone light, easy. It didn't quite land.

Mycroft adjusted his scarf, not looking at him.

Greg's fingers flexed at his side. Then, with a little too much nonchalance, he added, "Shame, though. I was kinda hoping you'd come upstairs for a bit."

Mycroft paused, just slightly.

Greg raised an eyebrow, trying for a grin, "You know… to chat."

That finally made Mycroft glance over. His expression was perfectly still, but his eyes betrayed just a flicker of hesitation.

Greg stepped closer, dropping the grin, just softening a little. "I wasn't asking for anything you're not ready for," he said, voice lower, more sincere now. "Just… would've been nice. That's all."

Another beat of silence. Then Mycroft looked away, exhaling through his nose. "It's not a matter of readiness," he murmured. "It's a matter of timing."

Greg tilted his head. "And?"

Mycroft met his gaze again. "And tonight, the timing feels… wrong."

Greg didn't argue. He just nodded, even if there was a faint sting in his chest. "Alright," he said. "But you still owe me that chat."

Mycroft gave a faint nod. Not quite a promise. But not a dismissal either. Then, softer - almost as he turned toward the door, "I'll come back tomorrow."

Greg watched him go, the bell above the door sounding far too loud in the quiet. And then he was alone again. With nothing but the echo of what almost happened.

And the ghost of Mycroft's hands still on his waist.

When Mycroft returned the next day at 4 p.m., something was different.

Greg knew it the moment the bell over the door chimed.

He looked up from behind the counter, expecting – hoping - for something like yesterday. That familiar rhythm. The warmth. The knowing glances.

But instead, he was met with a version of Mycroft that hadn't been around in weeks.

Distant and closed off. The warmth in his expression was gone. No smirk. No quiet amusement. Just that cool, professional calm Greg had almost forgotten he was capable of.

Mycroft walked in, coat buttoned all the way up, gloves still on, posture rigidly perfect.

And when he approached the counter, he didn't sit. He didn't say hello. He simply said, " Earl Grey, loose leaf. Four minutes. Lemon on the side. No sugar and a splash of milk."

Greg paused, caught off guard by the lack of anything resembling… them. No sarcasm. No playful remark. Nothing. He nodded slowly, reaching for the kettle.

"Sure," he said carefully. "Coming right up."

Mycroft didn't fill the silence with one of his usual remarks about Greg's technique or sugar placement.
He simply stood there, gaze scanning the room like a stranger.

And Greg felt the sting of it settle in his chest. He brought the tea over in silence, setting it on the counter. "You wanna sit?"

Mycroft looked at the seat like it was a trap. Then, after a beat, he nodded once and walked to his usual table.

But even then, he didn't take off his coat. Didn't remove his gloves. Didn't settle in. He sipped his tea like it was a formality. Like he wasn't planning to stay long.

Greg watched him from behind the counter, trying to keep himself from staring, from marching over there and demanding to know what the hell had changed overnight.

But he already knew. Something had shifted. Something Mycroft wasn't ready to say out loud. So Greg gave him space. Even as it gnawed at him. Even as he kept glancing up, hoping – stupidly - that Mycroft would look his way.

But he didn't. He just sat there, silent and unreachable.

And Greg, standing in the place that had always felt like his anchor, suddenly felt more unsteady than he had in weeks.

Greg kept glancing over. Trying not to, but failing every time.

Mycroft sat rigid in his usual seat - back straight, shoulders set, gaze sweeping the room with sharp, practiced precision. But what unsettled Greg the most was the absence of routine.

There was no laptop. No neat stack of files. No measured tapping at the keyboard.

Just the tea, cooling too quickly in Mycroft's hands, and his eyes - constantly shifting, not watching the world, but reading it. Tracking it.

It was the same look Greg had seen once or twice before. Back when Mycroft had first started showing up. Back when he was still more mystery than man.

Greg knew that look. It was the one Mycroft wore when he was on alert. When his mind wasn't in the room, but several steps ahead, calculating risks, tracking movement, anticipating what might go wrong.

And worst of all - he hadn't looked at Greg once. No subtle remarks. Not even a half-smile. Just… distance. Cold, careful distance.

Greg didn't approach. He gave him space. Let him sip his tea in silence. Waited for something – anything - to break through. But it never came.

And when Mycroft set down his empty cup with that same precise, deliberate motion, he stood and fixed his coat as though he'd never meant to stay in the first place.

He walked toward the counter, expression unreadable.

Greg opened his mouth to say something – anything - but Mycroft beat him to it. "Thank you. The tea was excellent."

His voice was clipped, formal. He gave Greg a short nod - the kind you'd give to a shop owner, not to someone whose mouth you'd been kissing against the shelves less than 24 hours ago.

"Good evening, Gregory." And then he was gone.

The door chimed softly behind him.

And Greg just stood there, staring at the empty cup, feeling like someone had yanked the floor out from under him.

A few minutes after the door had closed behind Mycroft, and the familiar bell had long stopped ringing in Greg's ears, his phone buzzed.

He wiped his hands on a tea towel, stomach still tight, chest heavy with everything he hadn't said. He picked up the phone and glanced at the screen.

Greg hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering. Then he unlocked the screen.

{ I'm sorry, Gregory. For how things are now. I need to get certain matters under control before they escalate further. Before worse things happen. A precaution, not a reflection of you. I hope nothing changes between us – M }

Greg stared at the message, reading it once. Then again. It didn't fix the cold goodbye. Didn't undo the look on Mycroft's face that said he was already halfway out the door before he even arrived.

But it did something. Because Mycroft didn't apologize. Not easily. Not often. And here he was, saying I'm sorry. Saying this isn't about you. Saying I hope you'll still be there when I come back.

Greg swallowed, jaw tight as he tapped out a reply.

{ I don't need everything to be perfect. I just need to know you're not walking away… Take the time you need, yeah? But don't shut me out completely xx }

He hovered for a second. Then hit send. He stared at the screen, heart still pounding quietly in his chest. He didn't expect a reply. Not tonight. But for now, it was enough.

But the reply came almost immediately, as if Mycroft had been staring at his phone, too.

{ I'm not walking away. I'm trying to protect what's important. That includes you – M }

Chapter Text

Over the next two days, Greg did his best to keep things normal.

Between the rush hours and the quiet stretches, he slowly started taking down the Christmas decorations, untangling fairy lights from the bookshelves, wrapping up garlands, and boxing up the mismatched ornaments Arthur had collected over the years.

The shop felt a little less magical without them. A little more… bare. But the real shift came at 4 PM.

Because, like clockwork, Mycroft still showed up. On time. Neatly dressed. Polite. But cold. Not cruel. Not harsh. Just... distant.

The same practiced indifference he wore when he was keeping people out. And now, Greg was one of the people being kept out.

Still, he played it cool.

He greeted him the same way every day. Smiled. Made his tea. Even offered a few subtle jokes - nothing too pointed, nothing that required much from Mycroft.

And Mycroft responded with the bare minimum. Polite nods. Occasional, short remarks. But never more than that.

He didn't linger after finishing his tea. Didn't bring a laptop. Didn't sit the same way - relaxed, open, willing.

He didn't look at Greg the way he had in the storage room. He didn't look at him the way he had before, full of things he wouldn't say out loud.

Greg noticed. Of course he did. But he didn't push. Didn't confront. Instead, he shoved it down beneath checklists and mop buckets and carefully coiled strings of lights.

Still, every time the bell above the door jingled at 4 o'clock, Greg's chest would give that same quiet tug. Hoping. Waiting.

And every time Mycroft left with a simple, "Thank you. Good evening, Greg." and walked out the door without looking back.

Greg told himself it was fine.

He was fine. He could wait. For now.

It was mid-morning on the third day. The shop had just quieted after a small flurry of take-away orders, and Greg was standing on the little step stool, dusting the top shelf behind the counter, when Cat leaned over the pastry case and said it.

Casually. Like she was asking if they were out of oat milk. "So… did you two break up, or what?"

Greg nearly fell off the step stool. He steadied himself, stepping down slowly, turning to face her with a look of mild disbelief.

"Excuse me?" he said, though it came out more like a croak than a protest.

Cat just raised an eyebrow, folding her arms. "Don't play dumb with me. The two of you were all warm glances and not-so-subtle flirting one day, and now he's walking around like you barely exist."

Greg huffed. "We weren't exactly... dating."

Cat gave him a look. The kind that said 'oh honey, you were'.

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "It's complicated."

"Is it?" Cat asked, not unkindly. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you two kissed, someone got cold feet, and now you're pretending nothing ever happened."

Greg didn't answer right away. He just stared at the duster in his hands.

"He's got a lot going on," he said eventually. "Work stuff. Serious stuff. I don't know all the details, but… I think he's trying to protect me. In his own ridiculously formal, emotionally constipated way."

Cat sighed and stepped around the counter, softening as she stood beside him.

"You know I like him," she said. "I mean, he seems insufferable, but you clearly like him more. And I've never seen you look at anyone the way you look at him."

Greg looked down, letting out a breath that felt heavier than it should have. "Yeah, well… guess we're in limbo now."

Cat bumped her shoulder into his. "He's still showing up. That's something."

Greg nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know."

Cat gave him a sideways glance. "You want me to talk to him?"

Greg snorted. "God, no. Please don't."

She laughed. "Alright, alright. I'll keep my nosy aunt energy contained. For now."

Greg smiled faintly, grateful. But as he turned back to the shelf, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had to give soon.

Because being half-seen, half-wanted, half-held wasn't going to be enough for much longer.

But even with the space between them - with Mycroft still distant at 4 p.m. every day, they kept texting. Every evening, without fail.

It wasn't quite what it had been - the easy rhythm, the teasing warmth - but it also wasn't cold.

It had shifted -softened - something careful. Tentative. Still touched with affection. Still… them.

{ I trust the day wasn't too taxing – M }

{ Bit slow, honestly. But I don't mind slow. Gives me time to think. (Dangerous, I know.) xx }

{ You thinking about me, Lestrade? – M }

{ Most of the time. You surprised? xx }

{ You don't stay for the music either huh? xx }

{ I know – M }

{ Missed seeing you there… xx }

{ I worry staying longer might only complicate things further – M }

{ They're already complicated, mate. But it doesn't mean I don't want you around xx }

Sometimes Greg would send a photo of a book cover he thought Mycroft would like. Or a snapshot of Cat rolling her eyes at him with a tray of muffins. Once, even a blurry image of himself before he went to bed.

And Mycroft would always reply.

{ I miss it – M }

{ What, the shop? xx }

{ You – M }

And Greg, lying in bed, phone glowing softly in his hand, would stare at those three letters for a long, long time. He didn't need a novel. Not from Mycroft.

Because even just a 'You' meant everything.

It wasn't back to what it was. Not yet. But there was still something there. Still hope tucked between every careful word.

And Greg could hold on to that. At least for now.

Greg was woken in the early morning by a crash.

Not the quiet kind that could be passed off as a shifting pipe or a restless neighbour. No, this was sharp. Sudden. Metal against tile. Glass breaking.

His eyes snapped open. Heart already pounding.

For a moment he lay completely still in the dark of his flat, straining to listen. Then - another sound.

A thud, from below.

From the shop. His shop.

Greg was already moving. He threw off the covers, feet hitting the cold floor, years of instinct snapping into place.

He didn't bother turning on the light. Just grabbed the baseball bat he kept tucked behind the door (a leftover from Arthur, of course), and crept down the stairs in nothing but a T-shirt and joggers, barefoot, breath held.

The floor creaked beneath him, but he kept low, silent.

When he reached the bottom step, he could just barely make out the dim glow of the emergency light above the back exit. The rest of the shop was still wrapped in shadows.

But there was movement.

Somewhere near the counter. A figure. Someone was inside.

Greg's grip on the bat tightened. He could feel the adrenaline flooding through him - his heart hammering, his chest tight, blood hot in his ears.

He crept forward, past the bookshelves, past the display case, eyes adjusting slowly - and then the figure moved again.

A silhouette. Tall. Deliberate.

Whoever it was, they weren't rushing. They were searching.

Greg's gut twisted. This wasn't some random smash-and-grab. Whoever this was, they knew where they were. They were looking for something.

Greg stepped fully into the room, the bat raised, "You've got ten seconds to explain what the hell you're doing in my shop before I start swinging."

The figure froze and slowly turned around.

The emergency light finally caught their face and it wasn't anyone Greg recognized.

The expression was professional, controlled, dangerous.

Greg didn't lower the bat. "You've got five seconds left."

The figure simply stared at him for a moment. Then without saying a word, they turned and bolted through the back.

Greg ran after them - barefoot be damned - but by the time he flung open the rear exit, the alley was empty.

Gone.

Whoever it was, they'd come in silently. Cleanly. And left just as fast.

Greg stood in the cold, chest heaving, bat still in hand, the early morning frost curling around him. Something about this wasn't right.

It wasn't random. This wasn't just a break-in. This was a warning. And suddenly, the distance Mycroft had put between them made an awful kind of sense.

Greg looked back at the open door, at the broken glass near the counter, and felt the dread settle deep in his chest.

"What the hell are you involved in, Holmes?"

Greg stood in the back doorway for another beat, the cold seeping into his skin and grounding him. Then he turned back into the shop, grabbed his phone with a shaking hand, and dialled the police.

The moment the dispatcher picked up, his tone shifted - calm, clipped, focused, "Yeah, hi. Greg Lestrade, owner of Novel Grounds in Covent Garden. Just had a break-in. Suspect fled on foot. No visible weapon. I need officers down here as soon as possible."

He gave them the details: what little he could describe of the intruder, the time, the direction they ran, the access point. Then hung up and exhaled.

Now that the initial shock was wearing off, something colder, more methodical settled in. He flicked on the lights and walked slowly through the shop.

Broken glass near the back counter - one of the storage jars he'd forgotten to put away the night before. A couple of chairs knocked over.

The till hadn't been touched and no attempt at the safe. He stepped behind the counter, checking beneath it. Nothing missing.

He moved to the shelves - no obvious gaps, nothing ripped-out. Then to the back storage. The boxes were rifled through.

But carefully. Not ransacked. It was targeted.

Greg crouched, examining the files he'd been slowly digitising for the past few weeks. Receipts, invoices, delivery logs - Arthur's old records, now organized neatly into labelled folders.

One was missing.

The file labelled "November – Private Orders."

Greg's stomach dropped.

That folder had included a few discreet orders Arthur used to handle for clients who didn't want certain rare books traced - collector types. Wealthy. Private. Some under pseudonyms.

He stood up slowly, his jaw tight. "Shit."

Whoever it was, they hadn't come for the till. They hadn't even been in a hurry. They came looking for something. And they'd found it.

Greg grabbed a notebook off the counter and started jotting everything down: time of entry, direction of exit, what had been moved, what was missing.

By the time the patrol officers arrived - two young constables in high-vis jackets - Greg was already halfway into his old routine - thinking like a cop. He was leaning against the counter, arms folded, notebook in hand, and the adrenaline starting to wear off just enough to make his limbs ache from the cold.

They pushed through the front door with professional concern, taking in the broken jar, the scattered chairs, the cold edge in Greg's expression.

"Mr. Lestrade?" one of them asked.

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for coming so quickly."

The taller one gave a polite nod, already pulling out a small notepad of his own. "We were told it was a suspected break-in. Any injuries?"

Greg shook his head. "No, just damage. And something was taken."

They followed him as he led them toward the back of the shop, explaining everything as clearly and calmly as he could. His voice was steady, clinical. Detached, even.

But inside he was burning.

He pointed to the overturned chairs, the open back door, the scattered files. "They were here for something specific. They didn't bother with the till. Didn't touch the safe. Just these."

He handed them the notes he'd already made.

The constables exchanged a glance. One of them asked, "Do you have CCTV?"

Greg shook his head with a grim smile. "Only outside. Never had trouble before. Was always… safe."

He didn't say it, but the word hung in the air like smoke. One of the officers moved to the back exit. "Mind if we take a look out here? If they dropped anything, we might have something for forensics."

Greg nodded and let them do their job, but his eyes kept drifting to the empty space on the shelf.

That file. That specific file. Of all the things they could've taken.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and stared at the last message from Mycroft.

Greg hesitated only a moment before typing:

{ Shop got broken into early this morning. They didn't take money. They took a file. One of Arthur's November private orders. That mean anything to you? }

He slipped the phone back in his pocket and returned to the front of the shop, where the officers were taking photos and bagging fragments of glass. One of them asked about a statement, and Greg gave it to them clear, crisp and efficient.

But underneath all of it, the same question burned. Why Arthur's file? Why now? And who the hell was watching them that night? He didn't know yet.

As soon as the officers finished their sweep and assured Greg they'd be in touch, he thanked them with a forced smile and locked the shop door behind them.

The moment the latch clicked, the tension he'd been holding in his shoulders all morning snapped loose, and a deep breath rattled out of his chest.

He was still barefoot, still in the threadbare joggers he'd thrown on half-asleep. Still very much not ready for the day.

So he turned, heading for the stairs that led to the flat above the shop, every muscle aching with the aftershock of adrenaline.

He needed to get dressed, to clear his head, to feel even remotely in control again.

But halfway up the stairs, his phone rang.

Greg froze.

The name on the screen made his stomach tighten.

Mycroft.

He didn't hesitate and answered immediately, "Didn't expect you to call."

Mycroft's voice came sharp, clipped, but with something cold underneath – tension, "I just received your message."

Greg exhaled through his nose, already moving again, climbing the stairs two at a time. "Yeah. Thought it might get your attention."

"Are you alright?"

Greg stopped at the top of the stairs, hand on the doorframe to his flat.

That question. Asked like it was habit. Or instinct. Or maybe both.

He swallowed, and when he answered, his voice was quieter. "I'm fine."

A lie, but an easy one.

"Mycroft, this wasn't some drunk looking for spare change. They knew what they were after. They went through Arthur's files. And they took one."

Another pause. Then Mycroft's voice, lower now. "I need you to stay inside.

Greg's brows drew together. "You what?"

"Stay inside. Keep the shop closed. Don't touch anything else they might've handled. I'll be there shortly."

Greg frowned, his chest tightening. "So it is connected to you, then."

"Yes." Mycroft responded after a moment of silence.

Greg rubbed a hand down his face. "And you're only telling me now?"

Mycroft's voice remained steady. "Because until now, it was avoidable. Controlled. I didn't expect it to reach you."

Greg let out a harsh laugh, finally stepping into his flat. "Well, it bloody has, hasn't it?"

Mycroft said softly, "I'm sorry, Gregory."

Greg leaned against the kitchen counter, the cold from the floor still biting at his feet. "Just get here fast, alright?"

"I'm on my way."

The line went dead. Greg set the phone down, staring out the window at the grey London morning for a few minutes.

Greg picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over the screen for a second before he tapped Cat's name.

The phone rang twice before she picked up.

"If you're calling to ask me to bake extra today, the answer is no," Cat answered dryly.

Greg huffed a small laugh, in spite of everything. "No, not today. You can put your apron down."

"What's wrong?", she asked, because of course she picked up on it instantly.

Greg sighed, walking over to the table and dropping heavily into one of the chairs. "Someone broke into the shop. Early this morning."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. Was upstairs when it happened. Didn't get hurt." He paused. "But I'm not opening today. Police were already by. There's some damage, and… I need to get a few things sorted."

Cat was quiet for a moment. "Do you need me to come over?"

Greg shook his head, though she couldn't see it. "No. Not yet. Just… take the day. I'll keep you posted, alright?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Promise."

"Greg… be careful." Cat said, sounding worried.

His throat tightened a little at that - just enough that he had to swallow before replying. "I will."

They hung up, and Greg set the phone back down on the table.

About thirty minutes later, just as Greg was finishing dressing and pacing for the fifth time around his flat, he heard the bell over the shop door chime.

Greg made it downstairs in seconds. When he stepped into the shop, he found Mycroft, standing near the counter - coat immaculate, scarf neatly removed, his face tight with tension.

And next to him, stood a man Greg didn't recognize. Tall, clean-cut, suit too sharp for a normal government worker. Eyes already scanning the shop like they were building a tactical map.

Definitely not here for coffee.

"This him?" the agent asked quietly.

Mycroft nodded once. "Gregory Lestrade."

Greg folded his arms, standing behind the counter, gaze flicking between the two of them.

"Nice to be introduced in my own damn shop."

Mycroft didn't rise to the bait. He looked tired and serious. "We need to talk."

Greg motioned toward the chairs near the front window. "You think?"

The agent moved first, sweeping the space without saying much, as if he didn't entirely trust that the intruder from earlier hadn't left something behind.

Greg watched him warily, then turned to Mycroft. "He doesn't look like someone who came for the pastries."

Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line. "No. He's not."

Greg exhaled and gestured to the table. "Alright. Talk."

Mycroft stepped forward, removing his gloves, and folded them precisely. He looked up at Greg, eyes sharp and clear. "What I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought we stopped doing secrets."

The look Mycroft gave him then wasn't cold. It was… resigned. Like he'd finally accepted something he'd been trying not to face.

"There's an internal threat," he said. "A leak. One we've been trying to contain quietly for some time. But the break-in here… it changes things."

Greg stiffened slightly. "Because they came for Arthur's file?"

Mycroft nodded. "Whoever's behind this, whatever they're looking for, Arthur had something they wanted. Something he may not have even realized he was sitting on."

Greg's throat tightened. "You think Arthur got caught up in something?"

"No," Mycroft said. "I think he was protecting someone."

Greg blinked. "Who?"

Mycroft hesitated. And that's when the agent stepped forward, voice low and precise. "We think it was you."

Greg's stomach dropped. He looked from the agent back to Mycroft, whose silence, for once, said more than words ever could.

Greg let the words settle. He blinked once. Then again. Just to make sure he hadn't misheard. "I'm sorry… what?" he said, voice low and sharp.

The agent didn't flinch. "We believe your uncle may have used your name. Intentionally or not, your identity is now flagged in several internal records. Some of which have been leaked."

Greg turned slowly, his eyes locking on Mycroft. His pulse roared in his ears. "Is that true?"

Mycroft didn't look away. Didn't deny it. Didn't try to soften the blow. He just said, evenly, "Yes."

Greg swallowed hard. "Jesus, Mycroft."

The room seemed smaller now. The air, heavier. Greg took a step back, his voice low and cracking. "And you knew this?"

"I suspected," Mycroft said carefully. "After the first breach. Your name was encoded into a list of 'unverified assets.' It didn't make sense at first, but…" he trailed off, watching Greg like he was trying to measure the damage.

The agent interjected. "It's likely Arthur used your credentials to hide something - or someone. That file they took may be the only trail left."

Greg's mind raced.

Arthur had been meticulous, careful, protective to a fault. But Greg had never imagined his uncle would drag him into something like this. He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted. His voice came out quieter.

"So what now? You think I'm the leak?"

Mycroft was already shaking his head. "No. I don't. But someone wants it to look that way. And now that they've escalated - broken in, targeted you - we can't afford to let this stay quiet."

Greg laughed bitterly. "Well, you've done a smashing job of keeping me out of it so far."

"I was trying to protect you." Mycroft said quietly.

Greg looked at him, jaw tight. He believed him. That was the worst part. But it didn't make it feel any less like a betrayal.

The agent stepped forward again, setting a small black device on the table.

"This is a secure tracker. We want you wearing it at all times, Mr. Lestrade. Until we know exactly who's behind this and what they want."

Greg looked at the device, then up at Mycroft. "Tell me this, then," he said, voice cold. "Was any of it real or was I just your cover?"

Mycroft's eyes darkened - not in anger, but in something deeper. A flicker of tension, of something unspoken pressing against the edges of his composure. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but still precise. The control hadn't shattered, but it was thinner.

"None of this was a cover." He paused and then added, "But I would prefer to discuss the rest… in private. As soon as my colleague has left."

Greg stared at him, chest tight, heart pounding in his ears. He didn't move. Didn't speak.

The agent beside them remained expressionless, flipping through something on a secure tablet, clearly trying to appear disinterested, though Greg knew better.

Greg's jaw tightened. He looked between the two of them, then back at Mycroft. And finally, he gave a small nod. "Alright."

Because whatever they were walking into now, Greg wasn't going to stand on the sidelines. He wanted answers and he wanted the truth.

The agent looked up from his tablet, seemingly satisfied for now. He slid the device back into a sleek case and stepped forward, producing a card from the inside of his coat.

"We'll be in touch with further details, Mr. Lestrade," he said, tone clipped but professional. "No further action is required from you at this time, but I strongly recommend you keep that tracker on at all times."

Greg took the business card between two fingers, glancing at the name. Just a last name, embossed in silver, and a government extension - classic. No first name. No personality.

He nodded silently.

The agent gave Mycroft a brief nod, then exited with no further ceremony - the bell above the door jingling softly in contrast to the tension he left behind. Silence fell like a blanket.

Greg looked at the card for another beat, then set it aside and exhaled through his nose. Without looking up, he said, "You want some tea?"

Mycroft hesitated for a second too long. Then finally, with the faintest crack in his voice: "Yes."

Greg filled the kettle. And the ritual of it - the familiarity - was grounding. Because in a world that suddenly felt like it was tilting, the sound of boiling water and the weight of two mugs in his hands felt like something real.

As the kettle began to hum softly behind him, Greg took a piece of chalk from the little drawer beneath the counter - his fingers still dusted with tension, his pulse only just starting to settle.

He crossed to the chalkboard sign near the door and began writing in quick, deliberate strokes.

"Novel Grounds will remain closed today.
Apologies for the inconvenience.
Thank you for understanding."

He paused for a moment, eyeing the neat, controlled letters. It felt too calm for what had actually happened, but there was something comforting about the normality of it.

Greg set the sign up on the pavement where passersby could see it clearly. The cold air hit him all at once - sharp, bracing. The streets of Covent Garden were still slowly coming to life, early foot traffic picking up, a few regulars pausing outside to squint at the board before nodding to themselves and moving on.

Greg lingered there a moment, watching his breath cloud the morning air. He felt the weight of everything pressing in again. The break-in, the stolen file, the tracker now sitting on his wrist like a quiet reminder that he wasn't just a shop owner anymore.

He was in it. Deep. And Mycroft had finally stopped pretending he could keep him out.

He turned and stepped back inside, locking the door behind him.

The kettle clicked off.

Greg met Mycroft's eyes across the shop. He was still standing where the agent had left him, his coat now draped over the back of a chair, his expression unreadable.

Greg brought over the two mugs - his usual and Mycroft's, prepared just the way he liked it - and set them down on the table with a quiet clink.

He didn't sit right away. He stood for a moment, watching Mycroft, who sat perfectly still, hands folded in front of him, his tea untouched.

Greg pulled out the chair across from him and sat down slowly. No more pacing. No more waiting. His voice was quiet but firm. "Alright, Holmes. No more half-truths. No more dodging around it."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on Mycroft. "I want the full story. From the beginning. What this is, how Arthur was involved, and why the hell someone broke into my shop."

Mycroft didn't flinch, but Greg saw it - the subtle shift in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. He was calculating how much to give. How much Greg could handle. How much he wanted to say.

Greg leaned in further. "I'm already in it, Mycroft. Don't insult me by pretending I'm not."

That did it.

Mycroft exhaled, long and slow. He reached for his tea but didn't drink it. Just held it. Like it gave him something to focus on.

"There's a network," he said quietly. "An internal intelligence breach, slow-moving, but persistent. For over a year, we've suspected sensitive documents have been filtering out of minor departments, disguised as low-priority archive files."

Greg stayed silent, nodding once for him to go on.

"At first, the trail led nowhere. It was designed that way. Hidden in misfiled contracts, misnamed folders, passed under the radar." Mycroft's voice dropped.

"Until someone tried to sell part of a heavily redacted operations ledger to an international buyer… and used your name to verify the drop."

Greg's stomach twisted, but he didn't interrupt.

Mycroft continued, gaze unwavering now. "The file was linked to a pseudonym that led to a chain of rare book transactions. Transactions that were recorded under 'private orders' - in Arthur's handwriting."

Greg's breath caught - the file. "You think Arthur was… what, some kind of middleman?"

Mycroft finally sipped his tea before replying. "I think Arthur was trusted. Respected. He'd built a reputation for discretion among rare collectors, academics, people who didn't want questions asked."

He paused. "At some point, someone used his system, used your name, to pass something they shouldn't have."

Greg sat back slowly, letting that sink in. The café. The orders. The locked cabinet of Arthur's old records. All of it had felt so harmless.

Now it was a cover.

"So what happens now?" he asked.

Mycroft's voice was calm, but colder. "Now we follow the trail back. The intruder who broke in last night was looking for that missing file. They didn't get what they wanted. But they know you're involved."

Greg looked down at the mug in his hands.

"And you?" he asked. "Where do you come into this?"

Mycroft's jaw tightened. He hesitated before he said, "I should have warned you sooner. But I thought I could keep you out of it. That was a mistake."

Greg didn't respond immediately. "What else aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft was silent, too silent. He stared into his untouched tea like it might offer him an easier version of the truth.

But Greg wasn't letting him off the hook. Not this time. He leaned in, voice low but unwavering. "Come on, Mycroft. Out with it. What else?"

Mycroft's jaw worked for a moment - an unconscious tic of restraint, like he was trying to swallow something too bitter to say aloud. Then, finally, he spoke. "Arthur wasn't just running a quiet side business."

Greg's heart thudded. He didn't say anything. He let Mycroft keep going.

"He was contacted, years ago, by someone inside the government. An analyst who discovered anomalies in classified file distribution. Someone who feared there was a leak… but didn't know who to trust."

Greg blinked, "And they came to Arthur?"

Mycroft nodded slowly. "They needed a safe place. A way to pass information discreetly. Arthur offered that - through the shop. Through coded transactions, orders that looked like nothing more than antique books or academic requests."

Greg sat back, stunned. The bloody man had been playing spy all these years and Greg had never even noticed.

Mycroft continued. "The analyst used your name once. As a fallback. In case the chain broke. Arthur never told you, I assume."

Greg shook his head. "No. He wouldn't have. He kept things from me to protect me. Just like you're doing now."

Mycroft didn't deny it. "The moment that file was stolen, the chain snapped. Now whoever's behind this is trying to erase the trail. And you're the last name on it."

Greg rubbed a hand down his face. It was too much. Too fast. But it wasn't a story. It was the truth. He could see it in Mycroft's face. The way he hadn't flinched from the hard parts. The way he hadn't made it sound easier than it was.

Greg's voice came quieter now. "So what happens next? You put me in a bunker? Keep tabs on everyone I talk to?"

Mycroft's eyes lifted. "I'll protect you, Greg. But I won't cage you."

Greg stared at him for a long moment, then gave a humorless chuckle. A beat passed. Then Greg straightened, his tone shifting - clearer. More resolute. "So I want in. Fully."

Mycroft stiffened. "Gregory-"

"No. No more hiding things 'for my own good.' No more vanishing at 4pm and acting like you're just here for the bloody tea."

Greg leaned forward again, locking eyes with him. "If I'm the last link in this thing. If I'm already a target, then I'm not just going to sit here and play the civilian. I want answers. And I want to help."

The room was silent. Then, after what felt like forever, Mycroft gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Alright," he said.

Greg sat back. And for the first time in weeks, he felt like they weren't on opposite sides of a locked door anymore.

They were in this together.

Greg sat back, watching Mycroft carefully - still letting the weight of everything sink in. The leak. The shop. Arthur. Himself.

But something was still nagging at him. A thought that had burrowed its way in the moment that business card landed in his hand.

He looked at Mycroft, quiet for a moment, then asked - softly, but pointed, "So tell me something, then. Did you walk into this shop because you wanted a cup of tea and a quiet place to work… or because it was part of the network?"

The question landed hard.

Mycroft stilled. The faint movement of his fingers stopped. His breath held, just for a second. And that told Greg more than he wanted to know.

"Right," Greg said, a bitter laugh catching at the edge of his voice. "So I was part of the job."

But before the silence could stretch too far, Mycroft spoke - his voice low and deliberate. "Yes. That's why I came here."

Greg's chest clenched. Even hearing it out loud, he wasn't prepared for it. But Mycroft wasn't finished.

He looked up, eyes steady, and added quietly, "That was the initial idea. Establish a presence. Monitor the area. Confirm whether Arthur had passed anything along to you."

Greg's throat tightened, but he forced himself to hold Mycroft's gaze. "And?"

Mycroft's expression changed. Just slightly. The faintest crack in his composure. "And then I met you." He paused. "And it stopped being about the network."

Greg stayed still. He didn't push. Didn't interrupt.

Mycroft continued, slower now. Sincere. "Everything after that. Every moment… every word, every night I stayed longer than I should've, none of that was for show. None of that was part of the job."

His voice softened further. "I didn't expect to care. I tried not to. But I did."

Greg's heart was pounding, something bitter and hopeful mixing in his chest. He studied Mycroft's face - every line of tension, every unspoken apology clinging to the edges of his words.

"So what was real, then?" Greg asked, quieter now. "The tea rituals? The texts? The kissing?"

Mycroft didn't hesitate, "All of it." There was no flinch. No faltering. Just truth. Plain and raw and maybe a little late, but real.

Greg let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders slowly releasing the weight they'd carried for days. He leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair, and let the silence settle - not heavy this time, but something more like clarity.

Then, finally, he looked back at Mycroft, a flicker of that old smirk returning to his lips. "Well," he said, voice a little rough, "about bloody time."

And across the table, Mycroft allowed himself the smallest smile.

Because whatever this was, whatever was coming next, they weren't faking it. Not anymore.

Mycroft's faint smile faded as he glanced at his watch, the spell of vulnerability quietly giving way to the cold return of routine.

"I have to go," he said, the words clipped but not unkind. "I'm expected at Whitehall within the hour."

Greg nodded, the weight of their conversation still hanging in the air between them. It hadn't answered everything, but it had shifted something. Cleared a path, maybe. One they could both walk - if they dared.

Mycroft stood, slipping his gloves back on with practiced efficiency, the mask returning piece by piece. But before turning toward the door, he paused and looked back at Greg.

"You should install cameras," he said quietly. "In every room. Front, back, the alleyway, even the storeroom."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Expecting more uninvited guests?"

"I don't expect. I prepare," Mycroft said, gaze sharp. "And you should too. Whoever broke in once will try again. They're looking for something, and they'll believe you know more than you do."
Greg folded his arms. "And if I don't?"

Mycroft stepped closer, not threatening - just firm. Steady. "Then I'll have surveillance placed myself. But I'd rather you do it on your terms."

Greg let out a slow breath, then nodded. "Fine. I'll talk to Charlie at the tech shop down the street. He owes me a favour anyway."

That seemed to satisfy Mycroft, though he didn't soften. He made it halfway to the door before Greg called after him. "Hey."

Mycroft turned.

"Don't wait so long to show up again." For a moment, Mycroft didn't answer. Then - his voice quieter now, meant only for Greg, "I won't."

And with that, he stepped out into the street, the bell above the door giving one sharp chime.

Greg stood there a moment, watching the empty space where he'd been, then turned and looked around the shop. Still his. Still standing. Still dangerous.

He grabbed a piece of paper and started a list:
- Replace locks
- Visit Charlie
- Install cameras
- Ask Mycroft what the hell happens next

Because this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Greg didn't waste time.

The second Mycroft left, he finished his now-lukewarm tea, grabbed his phone, and started ticking items off his newly scribbled list like a man on a mission.

First: the locksmith.

He rang up the same guy who'd replaced the back door lock a couple years ago when a drunken stag party had smashed into it by accident. Barry. Solid bloke. No questions, just solutions.

Within two hours, Barry had arrived, assessed both entrances, and promised to swap out the front and back locks with reinforced deadbolts by the end of the day.

Greg nodded, grateful, and slipped him a muffin for the road.

Then: Charlie.

Greg grabbed his coat, locked up behind him, and walked the few blocks to the tech shop tucked between the record store and the tailoring place.

Charlie, a wiry, excitable guy with thick glasses and a caffeine addiction, looked up from behind the counter, his face breaking into a grin.

"Greg! Haven't seen you since summer. Finally upgrading to contactless?"

Greg didn't waste time. "Sorry mate. Need security cameras. Full setup. All rooms. Inside and out. Preferably yesterday."

Charlie blinked. "Whoa. Something happen?"

Greg gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Someone broke in. Looking for something specific."

Charlie's grin dropped immediately. "Jesus. Yeah, yeah, alright. I've got kits in stock. Good ones. You want motion-activated? Cloud storage?"

"Everything. And discreet." Greg said.

Charlie nodded, already moving toward the shelves. "I can come by tonight to install, after closing. I'll even bring backup if it's a rush job."

Greg clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You're a lifesaver."

Charlie looked at him, half-serious. "You okay, though?"

Greg hesitated a second too long, then gave a half-smile. "Getting there."

With cameras scheduled and the locks in progress, Greg returned to the shop with a strange new energy in his chest - not adrenaline, not fear. Focus.

This place wasn't just a café anymore. It hadn't been for a while. And if it was going to be part of Mycroft's world - part of this messy, dangerous, secret-riddled network - then Greg was going to make damn sure it was protected.

Because this was his. Arthur's legacy. His life.

And now… something worth fighting for.

As the afternoon wore on, with Barry the locksmith working at the back door and Charlie texting confirmation for the camera install later that evening, Greg found himself pacing behind the counter, unable to settle.

He was alone. The sign still read CLOSED, and the usual rhythm of Novel Grounds - the buzz of conversation, the hiss of the milk steamer, the quiet comfort of routine - was missing.

Instead, there was only the hum of tension. The weight of everything Mycroft had said that morning. The things left unsaid.

Greg leaned on the counter, staring out the front window, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

Arthur.

His uncle, his mentor, the man who'd raised him with quiet warmth and endless patience… Was now someone Greg didn't fully recognize. He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaling sharply.

"What the hell were you into, old man…", he asked himself, because it didn't make sense.

Arthur had been gentle, grounded. A man of quiet routines and book-lined corners. He wore wool cardigans. He made homemade marmalade. He'd gone to the same barber for forty years.

He wasn't supposed to be the kind of person who helped ferry secrets between government whistleblowers and off-the-record analysts.

And yet.

Greg walked to the bookshelf closest to the counter, trailing his fingers along the spines of Arthur's old collection - the books he'd once thought of as just part of the shop's charm.

What had Arthur helped trade? Rare books? Antique ledgers? Hidden ciphers tucked in the margins of dusty tomes? Or worse - names?

Greg swallowed hard. "Why, Arthur?"

He wanted to believe it had been noble. That Arthur had helped someone who didn't know where else to turn. That it was about protecting something bigger than himself.

But the fear wouldn't go away. What if it hadn't been noble? What if Arthur had been used? Or worse… what if he'd known exactly what he was doing?

Greg leaned against the bookshelf, the quiet pressing in from all sides. The worst part wasn't that someone had broken into his shop.

It was that they'd broken into Arthur's world, and Greg was only just now seeing how much of that world he'd never really known.

The bell above the door jingled softly as Barry called from the back, announcing the locks were finished.

Greg didn't move right away, because even with new locks and incoming cameras and Mycroft bloody Holmes involved - the real mystery still sat right there, woven into the wood and paper and dust of the place Arthur had left behind.

And Greg wasn't sure he was ready for the answers. But he was going to find them anyway.

With the new locks freshly installed and the soft click of the security cameras quietly cycling in the corners of the ceiling, Greg finally felt the smallest hint of peace return to his chest.

It wasn't much, not certainty, not control. But it was something.

He did a slow walk-through of the shop before locking up, double-checking each door, testing the strength of the deadbolts Barry had installed.

The place looked the same, smelled the same - coffee and books and a little lemon from Cat's furniture polish - but it felt different now.

Like it was holding its breath.

Greg switched off the lights, brought the chalkboard inside and climbed the stairs back to his flat above the shop. Each step creaked the way it always had, but the familiar sound felt oddly grounding.

Upstairs, the flat was dim and quiet. He shrugged out of his coat, rolled his shoulders, and made a beeline for the fridge.

Inside was a Tupperware container with a note stuck to the lid in Cat's unmistakable handwriting:

'Don't you dare let this go to waste – C'

Greg chuckled under his breath and peeled off the note, popping the lid. Lamb stew. Rich and hearty. Probably from Sunday dinner.

He dumped it into a pot and set it on the stove to warm, the savoury smell slowly filling the flat, bringing with it a sense of something like comfort.

As it heated, he moved around the kitchen - mindlessly tidying, turning on the kettle out of habit. His body was still tense. But at least he was inside. Locked up. Watched over.

When the stew was hot, he spooned it into a bowl and carried it to the worn armchair in the corner of the living room.

He sat down slowly, the weight of the day catching up to him, and took the first bite. Warm. Familiar. Home.

Even if the world below had shifted - this meal from someone who cared - still held. And Greg clung to it.

Because if he was going to figure out what the hell Arthur had been tangled in and how far Mycroft's world had reached into his, he needed to hold on to something real.

Even if it was just lamb stew, a locked door, and silence.

The next morning, the shop was still cloaked in quiet when Greg turned the key in the freshly installed lock and pushed open the door.

The click of the deadbolt felt more satisfying than it had any right to.

He walked in, flipped on the lights, and let the familiar hum of Novel Grounds settle around him. Books waiting to be read, coffee to be brewed, a space still standing even under pressure.

Ten minutes later, right on cue, the bell above the door jingled and Cat stepped in, bundled in her heavy coat, balancing two trays of baked goods and a thermal bag tucked under one arm.

She paused in the doorway, eyes scanning the room - like she could feel that something had changed.

Then she raised a brow. "Everything looks normal. So why do I still feel like I've walked into the middle of a crime novel?"

Greg gave a tired smirk and took the trays from her. "Probably because you have."

Cat narrowed her eyes. "Talk. Everything. Now."

Greg sighed, setting the baked goods gently on the display counter, and gestured toward her usual chair by the window. "You want tea with that interrogation?"

She didn't even answer, just sat and fixed him with a look that said, 'don't waste my time, dear'.

By the time Greg had brewed them both a cup of coffee and settled across from her, he'd already run through the last 48 hours in his mind a dozen times.

So he gave it to her straight. All of it. The break-in. The file. The government leak. The agent. Mycroft. The way his name had been used. The way Arthur had been involved - maybe even central - to all of it.

Cat didn't interrupt. She listened, eyes flicking with understanding, concern, and something deeper, like parts of the story had started to click into place for her before Greg even said the words.

And when he finally finished, his coffee half gone, his shoulders heavy, he asked her, "Did you know? What Arthur was involved in?"

Cat was quiet for a long moment. She wrapped both hands around her mug and looked down at the swirl of steam rising from it, "Not like this."

Greg's eyes narrowed, "Not like what, then?"

Cat glanced up, her face more serious than he'd seen in a long time, "I knew there were people Arthur met with who didn't seem like the usual bookshop crowd. Always late. Always quiet. Sometimes he'd lock up early. Said it was for 'inventory'."

Greg felt his stomach twist.

Cat went on, "He never told me names. Never details. But I knew he was doing something more than just swapping first editions and running the till. He told me once, 'Sometimes people just need a place to be trusted'."

She looked at Greg, eyes soft but steady. "He didn't think you needed to know. Thought it would keep you safe."

Greg leaned back in his chair, the weight of that truth settling into him.

The man who'd raised him, taught him how to shelve books, how to pour the perfect cup, had also been hiding things to protect him.

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Sounds like him."

Cat reached across the table and rested a hand on his. "Whatever mess he left behind, it wasn't meant for you. But I know you. You won't let it go until you understand it all."

Greg met her gaze, "No. I won't."

Because it wasn't just about Arthur anymore. It was about what he believed in. What he'd protected. And what Greg had unknowingly inherited.

And he was going to finish what Arthur started - one way or another.

Chapter Text

Throughout the day, as the shop slowly returned to its usual rhythm. Mugs clinking, pages flipping, soft conversation drifting between shelves and Greg found himself repeating the same polite lie, over and over again.

"You alright, Greg? Shop was closed yesterday. Everything okay?"

That came from Mr. Beckett, one of their morning regulars who always ordered an espresso and read the Times front to back.

Greg offered a half-smile as he handed over the cup. "Yeah. Just felt rough yesterday. Figured I'd spare everyone the risk of catching whatever it was."

Beckett nodded, unconcerned. "Probably wise. You lot always run yourselves into the ground over the holidays."

And so it went.

From Mrs. Holloway's nosy, "You looked pale this morning, dear, were you ill?"

To Charlie - after swinging by to finish wiring the cameras - who raised a brow and joked, "Shop's still standing, so I'm guessing the plague didn't get you after all?"

To all of them, Greg gave the same easy answer. Sick day. Flu-ish. Nothing worth fussing over.

It wasn't something he could wrap up in a polite explanation. And the people who came here - his regulars, his neighbours - they didn't need to know there had been someone breaking into their quiet little sanctuary, rifling through secrets hidden in old invoices and dusty ledgers.

They didn't need to know that the quiet man who ran the café above the cobbled street was now carrying a tracker in his pocket and waiting for the next shoe to drop.

So he smiled. Poured drinks. Kept the shelves in order. And answered every concerned question with the same easy grace, "Just under the weather. I'm fine now."

Even if he didn't entirely believe it himself. Because beneath it all - under the counter, under the small talk, under the new cameras ticking silently in the corners - Greg was watching the door.

Waiting for 4 p.m. Waiting to see if Mycroft would show. Waiting to see if things would go back to how they had been.

Or if they'd ever go back at all.

At precisely 3:45 p.m., the bell over the door chimed.

Greg glanced up from behind the counter, expecting the usual mid-afternoon customer - someone seeking caffeine before the evening lull.

But the figure that stepped through the door wasn't regular, wasn't casual and definitely wasn't here for the pastries.

He moved with purpose, coat billowing just slightly behind him, scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, and eyes like sharpened glass.

Greg stilled. He recognized the look before the name clicked into place. Observing. Calculating. Dissecting.

The same intense stillness Mycroft had carried the first time he walked into Novel Grounds… but rawer. Sharper around the edges - younger.

Barely older than 18, but already moving like he owned every room he entered.

"You must be Lestrade," the boy said, voice clipped, posh, and infuriatingly sure of itself.

Greg blinked. "Uh… and you're-"

"Sherlock Holmes," the young man cut in, striding forward as if Greg had just taken too long confirming what he already considered obvious.

Of course.

Mycroft's brother. In the flesh. Looking like he'd just stepped out of a storm and into someone else's mystery and already convinced it belonged to him.

He swept his eyes across the shop as he moved - bookshelves, counter, ceiling corners, the chalkboard sign. Not admiring. Assessing.

Greg had the bizarre sensation that Sherlock already knew how many mugs were on the drying rack and where the security cameras were mounted.

"Your brother won't be here for another 15 minutes," Greg said, schooling his expression into one of polite confusion, even though his stomach had already twisted with tension.

Sherlock stopped in front of the counter, hands behind his back, eyes locking onto Greg like he was a specimen under glass.

"I find punctuality dreadfully predictable. Arriving early gives me the opportunity to observe before people have their guard up."

Greg leaned against the counter. "And do I need to be observed, or are you just here to inspect the tea?"

A flicker of amusement crossed Sherlock's face. Just barely. "My brother said you were quick. That's promising."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "So Mycroft sent you?"

Sherlock gave a slight shrug. "Not in so many words. But he hasn't been sleeping. Which means something's escalated. And when something escalates, he gets overprotective and quiet. The last time that happened, I was six and he had me followed by a private security firm for three weeks."

Greg blinked. Okay. He rubbed the back of his neck. "And you came here because…?"

Sherlock stepped back from the counter and turned in a slow circle, arms folded.

"Because he won't tell me what's going on. But he's been showing up here. Daily. And suddenly installing surveillance around a quaint little café in Covent Garden."

He stopped and looked Greg dead in the eye. "Which means you are now a point of interest. And possibly a liability."

Greg narrowed his eyes, any remaining patience fraying at the edges. "Careful, kid. I've had a week."

Sherlock's mouth twitched again, almost a smirk. "Good. Angry people are harder to manipulate."

Greg snorted. "Jesus Christ. You're worse than he is."

Sherlock smiled, full this time, sharp and knowing. "He said you'd say that too."

Greg shook his head and started making tea. "Alright, genius. You've had your moment. If you're staying, you're either ordering something or helping shelve that stack over there."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Do you offer lapsang souchong?"

Greg glanced over his shoulder. "No, but I have a bin bag and a mop."

Sherlock huffed, clearly unimpressed, but chose to sit by the window instead.

Greg watched him for a moment before turning back to the kettle.

Sherlock made himself right at home. He slid into Mycroft's usual seat, crossed one leg over the other, and folded his hands in front of him, back straight, eyes sharp.

From that position - perfectly poised between window light and shadow - he watched everything. Greg. The customers. The door. The layout. The exits.

His gaze never rested in one place for long, and yet it felt like he saw everything. Every micro-expression, every flick of Greg's fingers as he wiped down the counter, every shift in weight from the customers leaning on the display case.

He wasn't relaxing. He was cataloguing.

Greg tried to ignore it. Tried to focus on pouring tea, taking orders, smiling like everything was fine. But every time he glanced toward that table and saw Sherlock sitting there, in Mycroft's chair - his chair - his stomach twisted a little tighter.

And then the bell above the door chimed.

Greg looked up from behind the counter and nearly dropped the cup in his hand. Because standing in the doorway, coat crisp, scarf perfectly knotted, jaw already clenched - was Mycroft Holmes. He stepped into the shop and froze the second he spotted Sherlock.

The shift in his expression was immediate. Not surprised. Not confused. But annoyed. Deeply, unmistakably annoyed.

He closed the door behind him with a little too much care.

Sherlock, for his part, didn't so much as flinch. He sipped from a tea Greg hadn't served him. God knows where he'd gotten it.

"You're late," Sherlock said, without looking up. "By three minutes."

Mycroft stepped toward the counter, slow and controlled, his expression drawn into something cold and tight.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "So… surprise family reunion?"

Mycroft didn't respond immediately. He just stared at Sherlock like he was a misfiled document come to life. "Gregory," he said at last, voice stiff, "did you invite him?"

Greg shook his head, grabbing a cloth to keep his hands busy. "How would I even? He showed up. Said you were being 'quiet' and that meant something was wrong. Then he sat in your spot and started making observations about my muffin placement."

Mycroft's lips flattened. He turned fully to Sherlock. "You had no authorization to come here."

Sherlock gave a disinterested shrug. "You've been sloppy. Emotionally erratic. That usually means someone's in danger. Or you're compromised. I thought I'd check for myself."

Mycroft exhaled slowly through his nose. The kind of breath Greg had come to associate with immense restraint. "And what, exactly, have you concluded?"

Sherlock finally looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That you're… deeply emotionally attached to this shop keeper, brother mine. One might say you wish to take this… relationship in a romantic direction."

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

Greg blinked.

Mycroft didn't react. Didn't blink. Didn't move. But his eyes flicked once - just once - toward Greg. A brief glance. A question. A silent weight passed between them in less than a second.

Greg, stunned into rare silence, finally found his voice. "Bloody hell," he muttered, "I need a drink."

Sherlock sipped his tea again, pleased with himself.

Mycroft remained still, the tension between his shoulders practically humming.

Greg busied himself behind the counter, but his eyes kept flicking toward the brothers - especially when Mycroft started walking toward Sherlock, his coat still on, gloves slowly being removed with precise, silent intent.

There was no rush in his steps. No visible tension. But Greg knew better. Mycroft was furious. Not the explosive kind - the kind that burned cold. Measured. Contained. The kind of fury that tightened his posture and sharpened his tone to a scalpel's edge.

He reached the table and leaned slightly forward, hands resting on the back of the chair opposite Sherlock. Then he said something quietly.

Too quiet for Greg to hear. He kept wiping down the counter, pretending not to watch. But his eyes were drawn to Sherlock's face.

And that told Greg everything. Whatever Mycroft had said - it had landed. Because Sherlock's smugness evaporated in real time.

His smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed. He stiffened slightly, his mouth pressing into a thin, unwilling line. For a moment, it looked like he might say something, but Mycroft cut in again.

Another low, clipped line Greg couldn't hear. And that was it.

Sherlock stood. Fast, but not stormy. Controlled. He picked up his coat, threw it over one shoulder, and turned just enough to glance back at Greg.

"Thank you for the tea," he said simply.

Greg blinked. "Uh… yeah. Sure."

Sherlock gave the faintest nod, then looked at Mycroft - a look that was sharper than it needed to be, and without another word, he walked out.

The door shut behind him with a soft, deliberate click.

And then it was just Greg, Mycroft, some other customers who watched the whole scene unfold and a silence so thick, it felt like even the air didn't want to get between them.

Greg let out a slow breath, leaning on the counter, and finally said, "Well. That wasn't uncomfortable at all."

Mycroft didn't answer. Not yet. He remained standing for a long moment, the quiet hum of the shop stretching around him like tension pulled taut.

He didn't look at Greg - not at first. Instead, he removed his coat, carefully folding it over his arm with exact precision as if the action might buy him time.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose and looked up. "I apologise for my brother's behaviour."

Greg raised an eyebrow, still leaning on the counter, arms folded. "He's... definitely something," he said. "Didn't expect an impromptu psychological assessment with my afternoon tea."

Mycroft gave a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and stepped closer to the counter.

"Sherlock is currently staying with me," he said, voice measured. "Our parents are out of the country for the next two weeks. And he… cannot be trusted to be left on his own."

Greg tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "Because he's a menace or because he gets into trouble?"

Mycroft paused for a moment, "Yes."

Greg couldn't help the short laugh that escaped him. "Right." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Well, he wasn't exactly subtle. Sat in your seat like he'd already claimed the kingdom."

Mycroft didn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little. He leaned on the counter now too, mirroring Greg's posture. "He noticed I've been… preoccupied. The fact that he traced it here is unfortunate, but not unexpected."

Greg met his eyes. "You didn't want him to know?"

A pause.

"Not yet. Sherlock has a habit of turning complicated things into spectacles. This isn't one I intend to let him unravel."

Greg studied him for a moment. The control, the weight in Mycroft's tone, the way he'd shut Sherlock down in just a few hushed words. He understood now. This wasn't about embarrassment. It was about protecting something Mycroft didn't fully know how to name yet.

Greg softened a little. Still teasing, but quieter this time, "So… for the record, the part about you being 'deeply emotionally attached, was that the part you were trying to keep quiet?"

Mycroft went very still. Just for a beat. Then, slowly, he said, "That was... not for him to say."

Greg's heart gave a traitorous little kick in his chest, but he didn't press it. Not yet. He just nodded toward the chair Mycroft always took.

"You gonna sit, or are you waiting for round two?"

Mycroft finally allowed a small exhale. The faintest hint of amusement. He walked over, pulled out the chair, and sat down at his table.

Greg moved back behind the counter, reaching for the kettle.

"So," he said, glancing at Mycroft over his shoulder, "how do you take your tea after your little brother explodes your emotional life in public?"

Mycroft gave a quiet reply, almost a murmur, "Stronger than usual."

Greg smiled to himself and got to work. Because despite the chaos, despite the questions, despite the Holmes family storms, Mycroft had come back.

And even despite everything that had unravelled over the last 48 hours - the break-in, the confession, the tracking device, and Sherlock bloody Holmes making dramatic deductions in the middle of the café - that afternoon with Mycroft felt like old times.

Because after Mycroft had settled into his usual seat, the one Sherlock had so obnoxiously claimed earlier, as if reclaiming it was a small but necessary act of order. He pulled a few books from his satchel - ones Greg had loaned him for over the holidays - and stacked them neatly on the edge of the table.

Greg came around the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth, eyes flicking toward the stack. "Well? What's the verdict?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, fingertips resting on the top book. "An interesting selection, though nothing too breath taking."

Greg laughed. "Jeez, that's the hardest feedback you gave me so far."

"Merely observant." Mycroft hummed.

Greg pulled a few new titles from the small shelf near the front from his 'staff picks' that no one took seriously but everyone secretly loved.

He set them down with a small flourish.

"Here. A classic rom-com with a fake-dating plotline, one with a slow-burn road trip, and this one has a ghost who falls in love with a living guy who runs a bookstore. Figured that was appropriately niche."

Mycroft stared at the covers like they'd personally offended him. "These are very… pink."

Greg shrugged. "So's life, if you squint hard enough."

But to his surprise, Mycroft didn't resist. He picked up the ghost romance - Haunt Your Heart Out by Amber Roberts - turned it over and gave a quiet hum of consideration.

The hours passed gently, the usual rhythm of the shop returning little by little.

A few regulars drifted in. Cat swung by with a wink but didn't interrupt. The door jingled now and then, but for the most part it was peaceful.

And as the sun dipped lower and the light turned golden through the shopfront windows, Greg picked up his guitar.

Mycroft didn't leave. Didn't even look at his watch. He just sat back in his chair, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on Greg with that unreadable look he always wore, but softer. More open.

Greg strummed quietly at first, fingers moving automatically across the strings, letting the melody settle into the air like a familiar scent.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to.

And when he finally glanced up, catching Mycroft watching him - really watching him - he didn't feel like a man tangled in someone else's war.

He felt like someone being seen. And if this, even for an afternoon, was what old times felt like… he'd hold onto it for as long as he could.

The last customer had long gone, the chairs were back under the tables, and the lights over the counter glowed warm and low as Greg moved through his familiar closing routine.

The peaceful lull of the evening was a welcome contrast to the chaos of the past few days, and for once, it felt like things might be tipping back toward normal. Or at least, their version of it.

Mycroft was still seated at his table, now packing the books Greg had lent him into his satchel with careful, practiced movements.

Greg glanced over as he wiped down the espresso machine. "You know," he said lightly, "you're allowed to stay past closing. I won't charge you rent."

Mycroft glanced up with the faintest smirk. "Tempting."

But he stood, sliding the strap of the satchel over his shoulder and pulling on his coat.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Heading off then?"

Mycroft gave a small, reluctant nod. "Unfortunately. As much as I'd… prefer to stay, I need to return home."

He hesitated, then added with a note of exasperation: "Sherlock is still in my flat. And unsupervised, he becomes increasingly creative with mischief."

Greg chuckled. "What, afraid he'll rearrange your files by colour instead of classification?"

"Worse," Mycroft said dryly. "He's been threatening to teach the goldfish to play dead on command. We don't even have a goldfish."

Greg grinned, leaning against the counter. "Well, I'd offer to babysit him, but I think one Holmes is about all I can manage in a day."

Mycroft met his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "That's quite generous of you," he said softly. "Considering everything."

Greg shrugged. "I figure if you're still turning up for tea and romance novels, we're probably alright."

A flicker of something passed across Mycroft's face - quiet amusement, maybe even affection - before he straightened his collar and took a slow step toward the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?" he asked, voice softer now.

Greg nodded, his heart already doing that stupid flip it had learned to do around him. "Same time?"

Mycroft paused just in front of the door, fingers brushing the edge of his coat. He hesitated, just for a breath. Then he turned back to Greg, eyes meeting his.

There was a pause. A moment so still, so charged, it pulled the air from the room. And then - quietly, deliberately - Mycroft stepped closer.

Greg didn't speak. Didn't move. He just waited. Watched. And when Mycroft reached him, he stopped only inches away.

For a moment, he seemed like he might overthink it. Might pull back.

But then Greg whispered, "Just kiss me already."

And Mycroft did.

It was brief, but certain. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the press of lips, warm and careful and real. A promise.

When they parted, neither of them spoke right away.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Mycroft said again quietly, almost with a smile.

Greg nodded, dazed but smiling. "Yeah. You will."

Mycroft turned and left, the bell above the door jingling softly as he stepped out into the night. The chill air swept in and was gone just as quickly, replaced by the quiet hum of everything left behind.

Greg stood there for a moment, staring at the door, heart full, lips tingling, mind racing.

Then he turned off the lights, locked up, and headed upstairs. A little more certain than yesterday that whatever this thing was between them, it was just beginning.

The next afternoon, again at 3:45pm, the bell above the door jingled and Greg didn't even need to look up. Only one person entered a room with that much dramatic presence.

"Back again, are you?" Greg called from behind the counter, glancing up just in time to see Sherlock Holmes sweeping into the shop like it was a crime scene instead of a café.

Sherlock didn't bother with a greeting.

He made a beeline for the bookshelves, long coat trailing behind him, eyes already scanning the titles like he was reading three at a time.

"I'm here to look at the book selection," he said, far too loudly. "Obviously."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Obviously." Then, more dryly, "Hope you find a gripping romance. I hear those are terribly enlightening."

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response.

Greg leaned against the counter, watching him with mild amusement as he moved along the shelves, fingertips skimming the spines like he was waiting for one to talk to him.

They lasted maybe a full minute in silence.

"Why do you let him stay here so late?" Sherlock asked suddenly, not turning around. "Mycroft."

Greg shrugged. "He likes the atmosphere."

Sherlock scoffed. "He hates noise, clutter, and unpredictability. This place has all three. And yet he still shows up."

Greg smirked. "You got a question quota today, or is this just how you flirt?"

Sherlock turned to him slowly, "Is he staying with you at night?"

Greg blinked and then laughed. "Bold."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is that a yes?"

Greg crossed his arms. "Is that why you're really here? To check on your brother's love life?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he countered with, "What was in the file they took during the break-in?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Why should I tell you that? And how do you even know this?"

Sherlock didn't flinch. "You're the last person who saw it. Or what was left of it. You went through the records after your uncle died. Did you read the file before it was stolen?"

Greg didn't look away. "Did you follow your brother here before the break-in started?"

Sherlock smiled. "Ah. Deflection."

Greg returned it. "Right back at you."

Sherlock stepped closer now, curious gleam in his eye. "You were supposed to become a detective. Lower class background, good commendations, no complaints. And you walked away from that for this?" He gestured to the café.

Greg shrugged. "Everyone needs somewhere to land. What about you? You're living off your brother's couch and playing with corpses in your free time?"

Sherlock grinned. "Touché."

They stood there, two completely different storms eyeing each other across a calm sea of pastries and books.

Greg finally exhaled and leaned on the counter. "You want something to drink, or are we just playing verbal tennis until you get bored?"

Sherlock considered. Then, without a hint of irony he said, "I'll have whatever he drinks."

Greg chuckled, "Tea it is."

Greg set the kettle to boil and grabbed two mugs - one for himself, and one for the trouble currently haunting his bookshelves.

Sherlock had perched himself on the edge of the nearest armchair, one knee drawn up as if he were a schoolboy in detention, arms folded across his chest, watching Greg with relentless focus.

Greg slid a mug across the table toward him and leaned back on his heels.

"Alright," he said, smirking. "Let's keep this going, then. One for one. You ask, I ask."

Sherlock picked up the tea, inspecting it with a sniff like Greg might've poisoned it. "Fine. But I go first." He took a sip, "Did you know what Arthur was involved in?"

Greg shook his head. "Not until it came crashing through my door. Now my turn." He tilted his head. "Why do you care so much about what Mycroft's doing here?"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "Because Mycroft never does anything for emotional reasons. If he's here every day, it means this place is relevant. Or you are."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You always this suspicious of people dating?"

Sherlock's expression twisted. "Your turn is over. My question. Did you read anything in the file before it was taken?

Greg leaned back against the counter, arms folded, "No. I didn't"

Sherlock nodded once. "Did Mycroft tell you the real reason he's staying so close?"

"He said it started out as surveillance. But somewhere along the way, it turned into something else." Greg said.

Sherlock studied him, his expression unreadable. "He's not good at that."

Greg smiled faintly. "He's better than he thinks."

Sherlock hummed and took another sip of tea. "Did you kiss him before or after the break-in?"

Greg snorted. "I'm sorry, what kind of question is that?"

Sherlock blinked. "A precise one."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Before. And when is it my turn again to ask a question?"

Sherlock ignored his question and nodded, as if logging that away into a psychological profile.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "You ever had someone look at you the way you're watching me right now?"

Sherlock tilted his head, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. "Only in interrogation rooms."

Greg barked a laugh. "Figures."

"What's your actual theory, Sherlock? About the leak. About Arthur. You wouldn't be here sniffing around unless you had one."

Sherlock's expression sharpened, the amusement fading. "Someone used Arthur as a quiet channel. Likely government adjacent. Someone who had access to mid-level files and wanted to keep their hands clean. When Arthur died, the trail went cold. But you-" he pointed a finger, "you are a living remnant of that trail. You're the last quiet node."

Greg sighed. "Nothing I don't already know Sherlock."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "Has Mycroft told you that he's afraid of what you'll find?"

Greg blinked. "He said he wanted to protect me."

Sherlock tilted his head. "Same thing, just less honest."

Greg exhaled and gave a half-laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "You're exhausting, you know that?"

Sherlock gave a pleased smile. "So I've been told."

Greg walked back behind the counter and grabbed biscuit from the jar. As he bit into it, he glanced over. "We done playing twenty questions, or you got more?"

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "Just one more."

Greg raised an eyebrow, mouth full.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, intense. "Do you trust him?"

Greg didn't answer right away. He chewed. Swallowed. Then looked him square in the eye. "Yeah," he said softly. "I do."

There was a brief silence. Sherlock's expression flickered, something small and subtle passing behind his sharp gaze, too quick to read.

But before either of them could say another word, the bell above the door chimed. Both men turned.

And there he was. Mycroft.

Composed as ever, coat immaculate, scarf perfectly knotted, but his gaze immediately landed on Sherlock - still seated in his chair - with a look that could have withered stronger men.

Greg bit back a grin. "He's back," he said, unnecessarily.

Mycroft stepped inside with slow, deliberate steps. "Of course he is."

Sherlock offered a tight smile from his position, still lounging in Mycroft's usual seat like he owned it. "We were just talking."

Mycroft's jaw tightened slightly. "I can imagine."

Greg stepped forward, keeping his voice light. "It was mostly civil. He only psychoanalyzed me once. Maybe twice."

Mycroft's gaze flicked to Greg - something unreadable in his expression, but it softened the moment their eyes met.

Then he turned back to Sherlock. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Sherlock stood slowly, brushing non-existent lint off his coat, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "I do. But I find this case increasingly compelling." He looked between them. "You're both terrible at hiding things. Fortunately, that makes you easy to read."

Greg rolled his eyes. "And modest, too."

Sherlock adjusted his scarf and turned toward the door. As he passed Mycroft, he paused just long enough to say, "He trusts you." Then added, a beat later, "Don't make him regret it."

And with that, he slipped out, the door chiming gently behind him.

Silence followed.

Mycroft remained near the entrance for a moment, watching the door as if he half-expected Sherlock to come waltzing back in with another observation.

Greg leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You want the rundown of what he pried out of me, or just the highlights?"

Mycroft finally turned back to face him, the faintest sigh escaping through his nose. "Let me guess," he said. "He started with casual curiosity and ended with veiled threats about emotional vulnerability."

Greg smiled. "More or less. He's got a talent for it."

Mycroft stepped further into the shop, glancing at the chair Sherlock had just vacated.

He didn't sit in it. Instead, he walked to the counter, closer to Greg, his voice quieter now. "He shouldn't have put you on the spot."

Greg shrugged. "It wasn't the worst question I've been asked this week." He paused. Met Mycroft's eyes. "And I meant what I said."

Mycroft didn't look away. Didn't deflect. He only gave a small nod.

The hours passed quickly after Sherlock's departure.

Mycroft had taken his usual seat, finally reclaiming it like it was rightfully his, and this time, he didn't bring work. Just one of the books Greg had recommended the day before.

Greg kept glancing over from behind the counter, his heart settling into that familiar, ridiculous rhythm it only seemed to have when Mycroft Holmes was in the room.

They didn't say much. They didn't need to.

It was easy, in the way that things had once been before the break-in, before the file, before the shadows started creeping in.

And Mycroft stayed again all the way to closing.

Greg flipped the sign, locked the front door, turned off the overhead lights, and began his usual end-of-day cleanup, moving more slowly than usual, dragging out the routine.

He could feel the question pressing against his ribs, waiting, aching to be asked.

Mycroft stood to help, gathering his coat from the back of the chair, but Greg's voice stopped him, "Hey…"

Mycroft turned toward him. "Yes?"

Greg hesitated, drying his hands on a towel that was suddenly far too interesting. "I was thinking…" He cleared his throat, eyes flicking up to meet Mycroft's. "You wanna go out? Grab dinner somewhere?"

Mycroft blinked, caught off guard for the first time in days. Not in a bad way, just… surprised.

Greg rushed on, nerves now tumbling out of him. "I mean, we've done the whole tea-and-quietly-pining-in-the-shop thing for months now, and you clearly don't mind my company, and I'm starving, and I figured…well, I'd regret not asking, so..."

Mycroft held up a hand - gently, not to stop him, but to anchor the moment. And there was a rare softness in his voice when he said: "Yes."

Greg blinked. "Yeah?"

A faint smile ghosted over Mycroft's lips. "I'd like that. Very much."

Greg's shoulders dropped with relief, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright then."

He tossed the towel aside and grabbed his coat. "Let's see how you handle dinner without a tea cup to hide behind."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, reaching for his gloves. "Gregory, I assure you, I am far more dangerous with a wine list."

Greg laughed as they stepped into the night together, the city humming around them.

The night air was crisp, with a soft breeze sweeping down the narrow street as Greg locked the shop behind them. Greg tugged on his coat and glanced at Mycroft, who unsurprisingly still looked immaculate, even in the dim, late-hour light.

"C'mon," Greg said, nodding down the street. "I know a place."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but followed without question.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes. Greg kept his hands in his coat pockets, stealing glances at Mycroft now and then. Mycroft didn't seem in a rush to fill the quiet. He walked just slightly behind Greg, taking in the surroundings, still alert - but softer, somehow.

At the corner, Greg paused outside a little restaurant with wide windows, red gingham curtains, and the smell of garlic and roasted tomatoes wafting into the street.

"Here we are," Greg said, motioning toward the door. "Luigi's. Family-owned and the best gnocchi in central London. Arthur used to take me here whenever I got a good grade on an exam."

Mycroft regarded the place for a moment, then gave a quiet nod of approval.

"Charming," he murmured, which from Mycroft might as well have been a glowing endorsement.
Greg grinned and pushed open the door.

Inside, the restaurant was warm and bustling, filled with the soft clatter of dishes and low laughter. There were only ten or so tables, most already occupied, and the lighting was soft and golden, casting everything in a familiar, welcoming haze.

A hostess greeted them with a cheerful smile, and Greg offered a quick nod. "Hey, Anna. Table for two?"

She beamed. "For you, always. Back corner?"

Greg nodded, and she led them past the other diners to a quiet table by the window. Mycroft pulled out a chair for Greg - smoothly, like it was muscle memory - and sat across from him.

They were handed menus, though Greg barely glanced at his. "I already know what I'm getting," he said with a grin. "You?"

Mycroft studied the menu like it was a classified document. "I assume the carbonara is tolerable."

Greg leaned in, smirking. "Tolerable, Holmes? It's homemade. Luigi himself would have your head if he heard you call it that."

Mycroft looked up, amused. "Then I suppose I'll risk it."

Mycroft studied the wine list and gave it a satisfied nod. They placed their orders, and the moment the server left, the air between them shifted slightly.

Still comfortable, still warm - but now charged with something just a little deeper.

The quiet kind of anticipation that comes when you're no longer dancing around the edges of something, but stepping into it.

Greg rested his arms on the table, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. "You ever do this?" he asked. "Go out for dinner?"

Mycroft tilted his head thoughtfully. "Rarely. And never quite like this."

Greg's lips twitched. "Meaning with someone who knows how to pronounce 'gnocchi'?"

That earned a faint chuckle from Mycroft. "No. Meaning with someone I'm not pretending I don't care about."

Greg froze for half a heartbeat. "Same."

Greg stared at Mycroft for a beat longer, the quiet weight of that admission sitting between them like something precious and fragile. He reached for his wine glass, mostly to distract himself from the way his stomach had just flipped.

"So," he said, trying for casual, "what's Sherlock actually doing with himself while you're out being emotionally vulnerable in public?"

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh and leaned back in his chair, the candlelight catching just under his cheekbones. "At home, hopefully. Though he was threatening to conduct an 'experiment' on my refrigerator before I left."

Greg raised an eyebrow, amused. "Do I want to know what kind of experiment?"

"It involved magnets, an ice tray, and a very alarming discussion about memory recall under temperature duress," Mycroft replied dryly. "I didn't ask further questions."

Greg snorted into his wine. "Jesus. And you live with him?"

"Temporarily. Our parents are still on their trip, and Sherlock… let's just say he has a tendency to test the boundaries of what's considered 'safe' human behaviour when left unsupervised."

Greg chuckled. "Yeah, I picked up on that. He's intense."

Mycroft looked down at the table for a moment, turning his wine glass between his fingers. Then, without looking up, he said "He's brilliant. And impossible. But he's mine to worry about."

Greg softened, watching him, "He's lucky to have you. Even if he'd never admit it."

Mycroft huffed a quiet breath - somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "He has his own way of showing gratitude."

Greg smirked. "Does it involve unsolicited psychological evaluations?"

Mycroft smiled faintly, "That's practically a love letter in Holmes terms."

They both chuckled, and for a moment the mood lightened again.

Greg let himself relax more deeply into his seat, watching Mycroft over the candlelight, the soft hum of the restaurant blurring around them. "I'm glad you came tonight," he said quietly.

Mycroft looked up, and there was no guardedness in his expression this time, just something quiet and steady. "So am I."

Their shared look lingered for another breath - warm, wordless, and steady - until the soft clatter of dishes brought them back to earth.

A server arrived with a practiced smile, setting down their plates with a flourish that made Greg grin.

"Ah, there it is," He practically rubbed his hands together as the aroma hit him. "You're about to have your life changed, Holmes. That carbonara's no joke."

Mycroft offered a polite nod to the server, then eyed the dish like it was a diplomatic envoy, "I'll try to contain my expectations."

Greg stabbed a piece of gnocchi, blew on it, and popped it into his mouth with a pleased sigh, "God, I needed this. Feels like I've eaten nothing but pastry scraps and anxiety for a week."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, twirling his fork with surprising ease. "I seem to recall Cat sending you home with enough food to sustain a small country."

Greg smirked. "Yeah, and I stress-ate half of it while writing emails and watching late-night mystery shows. Hardly counts as a proper meal."

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the din of the restaurant forming a pleasant background hum.

Then, mid-bite, Greg glanced up and caught Mycroft watching him - not in that usual observant, assessing way, but… softer. Present.

Greg swallowed, cleared his throat, and gave him a lopsided smile, "So..." He set his fork down with a gentle clink, "Not to be that guy, but… are we dating now?"

Mycroft paused, mid-sip of wine. His expression didn't change, but there was a spark of something behind his eyes - amusement, maybe.

He set his glass down with precision, then met Greg's gaze head-on. "Is that what this is?"

Greg shrugged, trying to keep it light. "I mean… I asked you out to dinner. You said yes. There was kissing. Emotional confessions. You're eating carbs in front of me." He leaned forward, playful. "Feels date-ish."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "I suppose by most definitions, yes. It appears we are, in fact, dating."

Greg raised his wine glass with mock formality. "To clarity, then."

Mycroft clinked his glass lightly against Greg's. "To clarity."

And as they both drank, Greg couldn't help but grin into his glass.

Chapter Text

By the time the wine bottle stood empty between them and the last spoonful of tiramisu had been shamelessly fought over - Greg won, but barely - they had shifted into that rare, easy space where time blurred and everything outside their table stopped mattering.

The candle had burned low. The restaurant had quieted. The late hour settled over them like a warm blanket.

Greg leaned back in his chair, legs stretched under the table, wine-flushed and grinning as he licked the last bit of cream from his spoon.

"Alright, I'll admit it," he said, waving the spoon like a declaration. "You're not half bad company, Holmes."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, his voice dry but fond. "High praise, coming from someone who once compared me to a haunted grandfather clock."

Greg smirked. "Yeah, but a very refined haunted grandfather clock. With taste." He paused, then added, "And surprisingly good taste in tiramisu."

Mycroft allowed a ghost of a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "I had no part in the selection."

"Still counts," Greg said, grinning as he nudged the plate toward him.

Their legs had bumped under the table at some point and neither had moved. Their voices had dipped lower, the way they do when something shifts, when the closeness becomes deliberate. Intimate.

Mycroft rested his chin lightly on his knuckles, watching Greg with soft, amused eyes. "You always this charming after a bottle of wine?"

Greg chuckled. "Nah. Sometimes I get emotional and cry about books. You're lucky tonight."

"So far, yes," Mycroft replied. Then, quietly, "Though I rather think I'd find that endearing too."

Greg blinked, thrown slightly off course by the gentleness of it. "Careful," he murmured, voice lower now. "If you keep saying things like that, I'll think you mean it."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "I wouldn't say it if I didn't."

The words sat there between them for a moment - unrushed. Unafraid.

Greg's throat tightened a little, but in the good way. The you're letting yourself believe this might be real way. He pushed the spoon aside and folded his hands on the table, leaning in just slightly.

"So what now?" he asked softly. "We keep doing this? The tea, the books, the stolen kisses and dinner dates?"

Mycroft matched his lean, eyes warm and steady. "If you'll have me."

Greg's heart thudded a little louder in his chest, but he smiled through it.

"Oh, I'll have you, alright." Greg leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something a little warmer, a little more deliberate.

"In fact… I was thinking." He paused, casually swirling the last sip of wine in his glass. "You could come back to mine tonight. If you want." He looked up, meeting Mycroft's gaze squarely. Not pushy. Not rushed. Just… open.

"Nothing dramatic. Just… maybe more wine. Bit of quiet." A soft smirk, "Maybe I'll even let you borrow some of my personal books."

Mycroft's mouth twitched, but this time it wasn't just amusement - it was something softer. Something that settled behind his eyes and warmed the edges of his expression.

"And what a privilege that would be," he murmured, folding his napkin with careful precision, "Yes. I'd like that."

Greg smiled, pulse kicking up just slightly as he set his glass down and leaned back in his chair., "Good."

And just like that, they rose from the table together - the evening not ending, but simply moving on to somewhere quieter, and just for them.

The familiar chime of keys and creak of the shop's back staircase greeted them as Greg led Mycroft up to his flat above Novel Grounds. The warm scent of books still lingered faintly in the walls, blending with the subtle hint of cedar and bergamot from Mycroft's coat as he stepped inside.

It wasn't large. It wasn't fancy. But it was home. Lived-in. Comfortable. Cozy in that way only places layered with memories could be.

Greg toed off his shoes and flicked on the lamp in the corner, casting the space in a soft, golden glow. "Make yourself at home," he said, tossing his keys into the bowl by the door and gesturing toward the sofa.

"Couch is yours. I'll grab the wine."

Mycroft gave the space a once-over, lingering for half a beat longer at the framed photo of Arthur on the bookshelf, and another at the open guitar case resting near the window.

Then, wordlessly, he removed his coat and scarf, folded them neatly over the back of a chair, and lowered himself onto the sofa like it was second nature.

Greg disappeared into the small kitchen, opening the cupboard and pulling out a new bottle from the modest collection he kept tucked above the fridge.

"Alright," he called, popping the cork with an easy twist. "Your options tonight are red or red. I'm out of anything remotely sophisticated."

From the living room came Mycroft's even, amused reply, "I've endured far worse in the name of diplomacy."

Greg grinned, grabbing two glasses. "Good. This one's got a lion on the label, so it's either very fancy or absolute piss. No in between."

He returned to the living room with the bottle and glasses, finding Mycroft comfortably settled, one leg crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up, the top button of his shirt now undone.

Greg faltered for half a second - Christ, he looked good like that - then handed over a glass and sat beside him, close but not quite touching. He poured for both of them, then raised his glass.

"To lion-label wine and terrible decisions?"

Mycroft clinked his glass gently against Greg's, the corner of his mouth lifting. "To both. Though I suspect only the wine will prove terrible."

Greg chuckled, took a sip, and immediately made a face. "...Yeah, jury's still out."

They both laughed - soft, easy, content - and settled into the quiet hum of the flat.

They drank the horrible wine - truly horrible, Greg had to admit after the second glass - and somehow it only made the night better.

It became part of the joke. Part of the charm.

Greg sat sideways on the sofa now, his knee bumping gently against Mycroft's, who had abandoned any formality and was lounging with one arm stretched along the backrest, wine glass balanced with deliberate grace.

"You're telling me," Greg said, gesturing animatedly with his glass, "that you honestly think Wuthering Heights is a better love story than The Song of Achilles?"

Mycroft didn't even blink. "One is a tortured exploration of obsession and decay. The other is fanfiction with a Greek mythology budget."

Greg choked on his sip. "You absolute menace."

Mycroft allowed himself a smirk, cool and sharp. "You invited this."

Greg snorted. "Yeah, well, I take it back."

But he didn't. He couldn't really, especially not when Mycroft was looking at him like that, that glint of amusement in his eyes, soft from the wine and something far less explainable.

They argued – discussed - everything from classic literature to modern romance tropes, each jab followed by a grin, each teasing quip followed by a soft shoulder bump or a smirk hidden behind the rim of a glass.

Somewhere between Greg ranting about why 'secret pining' was the superior trope and Mycroft countering with a suspiciously passionate defence of mutual slow-burns, their legs tangled without them noticing.

Mycroft's shirt sleeves were pushed to his elbows now, and Greg had completely forgotten that the wine tasted like a blend of vinegar and regret.

They were leaning closer with every minute. Shoulders brushing, arms relaxed, wine glasses low between them.

Greg laughed mid-sentence and Mycroft shook his head with a smile, watching him with an expression Greg was almost afraid to name.

And then, after a lull in the conversation, Greg shifted slightly to face him. "You're kind of impossible, you know that?"

Mycroft sipped his wine. "I believe that's come up before."

Greg shook his head, smiling. "I'm just saying. You're too well-read for your own good."

"And you," Mycroft replied, voice softer now, "are surprisingly hard to argue with, considering you believe Red, White & Royal Blue is a defining work of modern literature."

Greg snorted, swirling the last bit of wine in his glass. "Oh, come on. You've got to admit. It's clever, funny, a little ridiculous. And," he added, glancing sideways at Mycroft, "kind of fits us, doesn't it?"

Mycroft's brows lifted just slightly, caught off guard. "Us?"

Greg shrugged, casual - too casual. "You know. One of us is uptight, terrifyingly clever, and allergic to emotions. The other's a bit messy, a little too loud, emotionally available to a fault."

Mycroft gave him a look. "So you're comparing yourself to the First Son of the United States?"

Greg smirked. "I mean, I make a good latte and cry at book endings, so… close enough."

Mycroft didn't reply right away. He just studied Greg with that quietly intense gaze of his, the flickering lamp light catching the corner of his smile.

"I suppose that would make me the reluctant royal with too many responsibilities and a taste for pining," he said eventually.

Greg nudged his knee gently. "There it is."

A beat passed and then Mycroft huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "God help me… I did enjoy that book."

Greg's grin spread slowly. "Knew it."

They leaned back into the sofa again, shoulders brushing, hearts a little lighter. The laughter faded, but the warmth didn't.

They sat there for a moment - shoulders pressed together, legs tangled, the dregs of the terrible wine forgotten on the coffee table.

A rare, quiet kind of silence settled between them. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… full. Full of everything they'd been circling for months. Full of the truth they'd finally stopped running from.

Greg shifted slightly, his fingers grazing the rim of his glass, then stilled. He could feel Mycroft beside him - could feel the way the air had changed.

And when he looked up, Mycroft was already looking at him. Neither of them said anything. They didn't need to.

Greg leaned in first, but only barely - just enough for Mycroft to meet him halfway. And when their lips touched, it was slow. Steady. Certain. Not rushed, not hungry - just deliberate, as if they were sealing something that had been quietly waiting beneath the surface all along.

Mycroft's hand found the side of Greg's neck, warm and grounding. Greg's fingers curled into the fabric of Mycroft's sleeve, pulling him just a little closer.

The kiss deepened, still gentle, still careful - but no longer hesitant. And when they finally broke apart, barely a breath between them, neither pulled back far.

Greg exhaled softly, lips curved in a small, stunned smile. "Told you we were a slow burn."

Mycroft's eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. "You did," he murmured.

Their smiles lingered, soft and stunned. But then Greg leaned in again, and this time, there was no pause.

Their lips met with a little more pressure, a little less hesitation. The warmth that had simmered between them all evening finally cracked open - gentle turning into urgent, careful becoming craving.

Greg slid his hand up Mycroft's arm, fingers curling around the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss. Mycroft let out the quietest sound against Greg's mouth - surprise, maybe, or surrender - and then his hand fisted in the fabric of Greg's jumper like he couldn't bear to let go.

They shifted on the couch, bodies angling closer, knees bumping, wine glasses long forgotten. Greg's hand moved to Mycroft's waist, tugging him in until there was no space left between them.

The kiss grew hotter, less restrained. Mycroft's precision melted into something more unguarded. His mouth parting beneath Greg's, breath quickening, fingers tightening where they clung to Greg.

Greg pulled back just far enough to look at him - lips kiss-bitten, pupils blown wide, breath unsteady. "Still keeping it composed, Holmes?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

Mycroft's eyes flicked to his mouth, then back up again. "Barely."

Greg grinned, then kissed him again, harder this time. And Mycroft kissed back like he meant it. Like all the tension he'd been holding back had finally cracked open.

He pulled Greg into his lap in one swift, seamless motion, and Greg let it happen, knees bracketing Mycroft's thighs, hands cradling his jaw as their mouths moved in perfect, dizzying sync.

As their kisses deepened, slow gave way to something more desperate - more electric. Fingers threaded through hair, dragged along backs, clutched at hems. Greg's hand slipped beneath the edge of Mycroft's crisp button-up, fingertips skating along warm skin, earning the faintest hitch in Mycroft's breath. That sound alone made Greg's pulse spike.

Mycroft wasn't passive, not in the slightest. His hands gripped the sides of Greg's thighs where he straddled him, fingers digging in just enough to make Greg exhale sharply against his mouth. He tugged Greg closer, letting his control fray with every press of their bodies.

Shirts were untucked, buttons undone by impatient hands, lips barely parting long enough to breathe before finding each other again. Greg's palm skimmed over Mycroft's chest as the fabric of his shirt parted, and he grinned against his mouth.

"Posh bastard," he murmured, voice rough with want. "Even your skin feels expensive."

Mycroft chuckled, breathless, mouthing along Greg's jaw and down the line of his throat. "You're impossible."

Greg's hand slid to Mycroft's belt. "Still here though, aren't I?"

They laughed softly into each other's mouths, gasping and smiling and chasing one another with a heat that had been months in the making. It wasn't just lust - it was relief, release, the slow burn finally sparking into flame.

Mycroft broke the kiss. His lips hovered against Greg's, breath shallow, his eyes darker than Greg had ever seen them. His voice, when he spoke, was low and decisive, "Bedroom. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion. It wasn't a question. It was Mycroft Holmes giving in - completely.

Greg swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat at the shift in tone, the authority in it that made heat coil low in his stomach. He nodded, lips brushing against Mycroft's one last time. "Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, alright."

He climbed off Mycroft's lap just long enough to grab his hand and tug him to his feet. Their tops remained wrinkled on the couch. Their skin flushed with heat and anticipation.

Greg backed toward the bedroom, still holding onto Mycroft's hand, his grin all teeth and mischief. "Didn't think you were the type to issue commands in bed," he teased, voice husky.

Mycroft followed him, utterly composed despite the disarray, eyes fixed on him with laser focus. "Then you've been gravely underestimating me, Gregory."

Greg laughed, breathless and wrecked already, "God help me, I really have."

Mycroft didn't respond with words. Instead, he rushed Greg into the bedroom with a purposeful grip, pressing him against the door the moment it clicked shut.

Their mouths met again, but this time it wasn't cautious or tentative. It was heat and tension and months of unspoken need erupting into motion.

Mycroft's hands roamed Greg's back, deliberate and sure, as Greg traced the line of his collarbone with his mouth, earning a low sound that sent a shiver down Greg's spine.

There was no rush - just a slow, building intensity that pulsed between them, threading through every kiss, every touch.

"You're not as composed as you pretend," Greg murmured against his neck, grinning as he nipped lightly.

"And you're far more relentless than I anticipated," Mycroft breathed, voice low and ragged.

Trousers hit the floor, followed by underwear, discarded with little more than a murmur of amusement and shared desire. They stood chest-to-chest, skin to skin, nothing between them now but heat and intention.

Greg urged him onto the bed, climbing over him with a teasing smile. "Lie back, Holmes. I've got plans for you."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, lips curving. "Is this where I pretend to protest?"

"You could try," Greg said, nipping at his collarbone, "but I think we both know how that ends."

Their mouths met again. This time hungry, hot, and consuming. Greg's hand slid down Mycroft's side, gripping his thigh before spreading his legs. He moved between them, their bodies aligned, erections brushing and dragging a guttural moan from both men.

"Fuck," Mycroft hissed, digging his nails into Greg's back.

"That's the idea," Greg growled, hips grinding slowly down, dragging delicious friction between them.

There was no more teasing, no more pretense. Greg touched him like he meant it, like he'd waited months for this. Stroking, tasting, marking every inch of him. He wrapped a hand around both of them, stroking in slow, maddening rhythm, eyes locked on Mycroft's face.

"Look at you," Greg whispered. "Falling apart just for me."

Mycroft didn't reply – he couldn't. His head tipped back against the pillow, breath coming in short, ragged gasps as Greg's hand moved faster.

But Greg wasn't finished. He leaned down, nipping at Mycroft's throat, voice rough in his ear. "Are you gonna let me have you tonight?" he murmured.

Mycroft's fingers tightened in the sheets, and his breath caught.

Greg slid lower, kissed down his chest, and licked a line across his hipbone. He didn't wait for a verbal answer - he could feel it in the way Mycroft's body arched, in the desperate way he reached for Greg.

"Good," Greg said, lips brushing the skin just above his thigh. "Because I want you."

He took his sweet time preparing him, slick fingers pushing in slowly, deliberately, curling until Mycroft gasped and twisted under him.

Greg kissed him through it, swallowed every moan, every curse, murmuring, "That's it, let me take care of you."

By the time he had three fingers inside, working Mycroft open with smooth, rhythmic movements, Mycroft was trembling, one hand fisting in Greg's hair, the other clinging to the sheets like a lifeline.

"Please," he finally whispered, breaking the silence. "Gregory… now."

Greg didn't make him wait. He ripped open a condom package and put it on, before adding some lube to his erection.

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly, groaning at the tight heat that surrounded him, Mycroft's body arching beneath him in exquisite tension.

Greg didn't stop until he was fully seated, chest pressed against Mycroft's, breath hot against his ear. He rolled his hips with a slow, brutal thrust that made Mycroft cry out - completely undone.

Greg set a relentless pace - deep, claiming, intense - his hands gripping Mycroft's hips, anchoring him as he drove in over and over. He whispered praises against his neck.

And through it all, Mycroft gave everything - his breath, his body, his control - lost entirely in the rhythm of Greg's body against his, within him.

When they finally shattered together, Greg wrapped himself around Mycroft tightly, holding him through the aftershocks, murmuring his name like a promise.

Neither of them moved for a long time. There was nothing left to prove. Only the sound of their breathing. And the certainty that whatever this was, it was real.

After, Greg collapsed beside him, lips brushing Mycroft's temple. Their chests heaved, bodies slick and sated.

Greg turned his face toward Mycroft's and murmured, "Told you I'd ruin you for all other cafés."

Mycroft - hair mussed, body relaxed in a way Greg had never seen before - simply replied, "You might have ruined me for everything."

Greg chuckled, leaning in to press one more slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, savouring the warmth there, the softness, the quiet that had settled over both of them.

But when he pulled back, Mycroft was already shifting slightly - reaching for his underwear draped over the foot of the bed, the spell of the moment fading, just slightly.

Greg raised a brow. "You sure you don't want a shower before heading out? You're already halfway wrecked."

Mycroft gave him a flat, amused look as he put on his underwear, though it lacked any real sharpness. "Tempting," he said, his voice low and still hoarse from earlier, "but I have work in the morning. And someone has to ensure Sherlock hasn't dismantled the plumbing."

Greg sat up, the sheet pooling at his waist, watching Mycroft work each piece of his clothing back into place with practiced efficiency.

"Right," he said, trying to keep the disappointment from leaking into his voice. "Back to reality."

Mycroft glanced at him, just for a moment, and his gaze softened. "Gregory," he said quietly, "this wasn't an escape from it. Not for me."

That hit somewhere deep, unexpected. Greg gave him a crooked, lopsided smile. "Yeah. Same."

They moved together in silence for a few moments. Mycroft finishing dressing, Greg pulling on a t-shirt and sweatpants, padding barefoot across the room to walk him to the door.

At the threshold, Mycroft hesitated, hand on the knob. "I'll text you," he said, gaze steady. "Tomorrow."

Greg nodded. "I'll hold you to that."

And then, before Mycroft could turn away, Greg leaned in again - this time placing a kiss to his jaw, just beneath the ear. Soft. Warm. Certain.

Mycroft exhaled slowly. "You're… very difficult to walk away from."

Greg grinned. "Then don't wait too long to come back."

The door clicked shut behind him, and Greg leaned his forehead against it for a long moment, heart thudding, a ridiculous smile spreading across his face.

Greg woke up the next morning with a satisfied ache in his limbs. His hair was a mess, the sheets tangled, and yet he couldn't remember waking up this happy in months.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Blinking sleep from his eyes, Greg reached over and unlocked it. A message from Mycroft.

{ I'm at my desk, trying to focus. And all I can think about is your filthy mouth - M. }

Greg blinked surprised.

The next text came in a moment later:

{ The way you moaned my name just before I lost control – M }

Greg's whole body tingled. Another message:

{ If you were here right now, Gregory, I'd have you bent over my desk. Hands flat. Legs spread. And I wouldn't be gentle. – M }

Greg groaned into his pillow.

One last message:

{ Ruined for everything else, indeed. – M }

Greg stared at the screen, jaw slack, the messages still glowing back at him like something out of a dream - or a very well-written fanfiction.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, heart racing, his entire body now very awake. After several long seconds of blinking at his phone, he finally managed to type:

{ Jesus Christ, Mycroft. I nearly dropped my phone. Who are you and what have you done with the man who lectured me about proper napkin placement just last night? }

Almost immediately, a reply came in:

{ I am still that man, Gregory. I simply multitask - M }

There was a brief pause before another message followed.

{ Though I must confess… you've made it rather difficult to concentrate this morning - M }

Greg let out a strangled laugh and flopped back into the pillows, the grin on his face impossible to contain.

He wasn't sure what game they were playing now, but he was all in.

And he couldn't stop smiling. Not a small, subtle smile. A full-blown, stupid, someone's-gonna-call-him-out-on-it grin that tugged at his mouth every time he so much as glanced at his phone.

It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. But the texts Mycroft had sent that morning…

And now, standing behind the counter at Novel Grounds, fiddling with the espresso machine, trying to remember how to count change like a functioning adult. He looked like a man absolutely wrecked by a one-night stand who just realized it wasn't going to be a one-time thing.

Cat, of course, noticed immediately. "Alright, Romeo," she said, sliding a tray of pastries into the display case. "Either you've won the lottery or someone finally got you laid properly."

Greg coughed on air and nearly dropped a muffin. "Jesus, auntie."

She gave him a wicked grin. "You're glowing, sweetheart. You've either found religion or sin, and I'd bet my best baking tin it's the second one."

Greg muttered something about minding her own pastries, but his grin only grew wider. The thing was, he wasn't just smiling because of the sex - even if, God, that had been incredible.

It was because of Mycroft. The way he'd stayed afterward. The way he'd said 'you might have ruined me for everything'. The way he texted this morning like someone who wasn't hiding anymore.

Greg had been caught off guard, completely floored by the shift. But it felt right. Like something fragile finally starting to settle into place.

Still, it was a strange juxtaposition. How one part of his life was finally blooming into something warm and exhilarating, while another was shadowed by mystery and danger.

Because when he wasn't grinning like a lovesick fool, his thoughts drifted to Arthur. To the break-in. To the surveillance now quietly running in the background. To the locked cabinet in the backroom Greg hadn't dared touch since the last conversation with Mycroft.

It was whiplash, really. One minute, he was imagining Mycroft in his bed. The next, he was wondering whether Arthur had helped smuggle god-knows-what through the back of the café.

But somehow… somehow, the contradictions felt real. Felt honest. Like life wasn't waiting for Greg to be ready - it was just happening. Messy, complicated, brilliant.

And at 3:59 PM, when the bell above the door rang and Mycroft stepped in with that usual quiet confidence and the faintest twitch of a smirk.

Greg's heart did the stupid thing again. And he didn't even try to stop it.

Every time Greg glanced his way - just to check - he'd find Mycroft doing the exact same. And neither of them was any good at pretending otherwise.

The first time their eyes met, it was brief - barely more than a flicker. But the smile that tugged at Mycroft's mouth was unmistakable. Subtle, yes. Controlled, absolutely. But there.

Greg grinned back, completely and utterly helpless against it.

Then he ducked behind the counter, pretending to clean something that didn't need cleaning, hoping no one noticed he was blushing like a teenager.

And the next time he looked over, Mycroft wasn't even trying to pretend anymore. He was leaning slightly back in his chair, watching Greg with something that might've once been labelled smugness, except it was too soft around the edges. Too… affectionate.

Greg tilted his head and mouthed, "Work, Holmes."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and mouthed back, "You first."

Greg rolled his eyes and turned away, biting his lip to hide the grin that kept threatening to break across his face.

The next half hour was an unspoken battle of restraint and sabotage. Every time Greg passed by Mycroft's table to deliver an order or clear a plate, their hands brushed just slightly too close. Mycroft would glance up at him through those maddeningly long lashes, and Greg would forget what he'd come over to do in the first place.

It was ridiculous. It was delightful. And judging by the matching expressions of suppressed giddiness they wore every time their gazes locked again, neither of them minded one bit.

Somewhere in the back of Greg's head, he knew Cat was watching from the kitchen and probably making mental bets with herself about how long they'd last before one of them made an excuse to sneak off into the back again.

But honestly? He didn't care. Because for the first time in a long while, Greg wasn't just living day to day. He wasn't just surviving the ghosts of the past or enduring the weight of secrets.

He was - against all odds - happy.

And Mycroft Holmes, grinning at him like that from across the room, was the reason why.

So it was no surprise when, after Greg flipped the sign to 'closed' and locked the front door, they ended up tangled together again.

But this time, Mycroft didn't wait. Didn't hesitate. He pressed Greg up against the wall just inside the flat, kissed him with breathtaking precision, and murmured against his mouth, "Bedroom. Now."

Greg barely got the bedroom door shut before Mycroft had him pinned to it, his hands firm and demanding.

"You had your turn," Mycroft said, voice low, rough silk. "Now it's mine."

Greg's breath caught, his heart hammering as Mycroft's mouth found his neck, teeth grazing skin, lips coaxing shivers. His hands worked quickly, stripping Greg of his clothes with a confidence that left no room for argument.

Mycroft guided him to the bed with a firm hand to his chest, pushing him down. Greg sat, dazed, watching as Mycroft undressed with unhurried elegance, removing each layer like a performance designed just for him.

When he climbed over Greg, there was nothing hesitant in him - only control, only intent. He kissed him deep and slow, hands sliding along Greg's thighs before spreading them apart.

"Stay exactly where you are," Mycroft said, voice iron. "Hands on the headboard. Don't move unless I say."

Greg groaned, already so hard he ached, nodding wordlessly.

Mycroft reached for the lube, slicking his fingers before teasing Greg open with calculated precision. No rush, just deep, patient preparation that had Greg gasping and cursing his name.

By the time Mycroft pressed inside, slow and devastatingly thorough, Greg was nearly shaking, moaning uncontrollably.

Mycroft set the pace - measured, deep, possessive. His hands gripped Greg's hips, keeping him exactly where he wanted him, and every thrust hit with maddening accuracy.

"You're mine tonight," he whispered, dragging his teeth along Greg's throat, leaving a hickey. "Every part of you. Say it."

Greg's voice broke. "Yours. Fuck, Myc-"

And Mycroft rewarded him with harder thrusts, with praise that made Greg's head spin, with heat and hunger that stripped away everything but sensation.

When Greg finally came, it was with a shout, eyes fluttering, body tightening around Mycroft so hard it dragged him over the edge with a groan.

They collapsed together, panting, wrecked, slick with sweat and utterly undone.

And as Mycroft curled around him from behind, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder, he whispered, "Next time, I want to hear you beg."

Greg, still trying to catch his breath, just laughed - low, breathless, and already wanting more. He laid on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, breath still shallow, heart pounding somewhere in the region of his throat.

Greg turned his head to glance at Mycroft beside him - dishevelled, flushed, and for once not trying to hide either. After a long moment, Greg let out a breathless laugh. "My god," he muttered. "This is absolutely ridiculous."

Mycroft, eyes still half-lidded, turned to look at him. "And yet… addicting," he replied, voice hoarse but steady.

Greg grinned, dragging his hand through his hair. "Yeah. That's exactly the problem."

They lay in comfortable silence for a while longer, the tension drained from their limbs but replaced by something quieter - warmer. Eventually, Greg stretched, rolling to his side. "You wanna stay for dinner?"

Mycroft arched a brow. "I thought you said this was ridiculous."

"Ridiculous in a good way, a very good way" Greg said, already sitting up. "Still doesn't mean we can't eat. I've got leftovers from Cat. Muffins, stew, something that smells suspiciously like it was baked with love and passive-aggression."

Mycroft gave a soft hum. "Hard to refuse that combination."

Greg stood, pulling on a t-shirt and boxers, and headed for the kitchen. "Exactly. Come on then, Holmes. Let's see if she's fattening us up for another round of questions."

Behind him, Mycroft finally sat up, and despite the exhaustion clinging to both of them, there was a new ease in the air. Like whatever strange, chaotic thing they were building wasn't just real…

They sat together at Greg's little kitchen table - well-worn, slightly crooked on one leg, with mismatched chairs and a small flickering candle that Greg had lit without thinking about it. The leftover stew had been reheated to perfection, and Greg had pulled out two of Cat's infamous herb muffins to go with it.

Mycroft, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed but still naturally elegant, took a bite and stilled.

Greg watched him from across the table, eyebrow raised. "What?"

Mycroft cleared his throat delicately. "That woman is a menace."

Greg blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"

"I meant that as a compliment," Mycroft said, gesturing vaguely with his spoon. "This is… infuriatingly good. Rich, balanced, deeply comforting. She could easily run a Michelin-starred kitchen if she weren't busy sabotaging your diet."

Greg smirked. "Yeah, she does that. Calls it 'love with butter'."

Mycroft took another bite and then, surprising them both, let out a soft hum of genuine satisfaction. "Well. I am… appropriately charmed."

Greg grinned over the rim of his mug. "She'll love that. You just wait till she finds out you said something nice about her food. You'll never get rid of her."

Mycroft gave a dry smile. "I'm beginning to suspect that may be true of more than one Lestrade."

Greg flushed but didn't look away. The space between them felt… solid. Good.

They finished their meal in easy conversation. Light teasing, stories exchanged between bites, the air between them warm with something gentler than lust and steadier than infatuation.

Greg leaned back in his chair, eyes on Mycroft as he wiped his mouth with the corner of a napkin like it was a diplomatic ritual. "You always eat like someone might be scoring your table manners."

Mycroft arched a brow. "And yet, you invited me to dinner knowing full well I would critique your cutlery drawer."

Greg grinned. "Fair point. Still, can't believe you even commented on the butter knife."

"It was upside down."

"It was clean!"

"That's not the standard."

Greg shook his head, laughter bubbling out of him before he could stop it. He hadn't laughed like this in a long time. With Arthur, it had been warm. Comfortable. A steady sort of companionship. But with Mycroft, it was like sparring with velvet gloves and cheeky underhanded jabs. Unexpected. Fun.

They cleared the table together without needing to say much, falling into a rhythm. Greg washed, Mycroft dried, though he did pause more than once to point out how poorly some of the mugs stacked in Greg's cupboard.

"Disaster waiting to happen," Mycroft muttered, adjusting the order of the shelves.

Greg just bumped him with his hip. "You're lucky you're hot."

Mycroft didn't dignify that with a response, but the corner of his mouth twitched - just a little.

When the dishes were done and the kettle was back on for tea, Greg found himself standing across from him in the kitchen, the hum of the quiet flat settling around them.

He didn't reach for him right away. Just watched.

Mycroft, stripped down to just his shirt sleeves and a rare ease in his shoulders, glanced over, catching his gaze. "What?"

Greg shook his head. "Nothing. Just… wondering how I got this lucky."

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, something unreadable in his expression. "You think this is luck?"

"I think…" Greg stepped closer, resting a hand on Mycroft's waist. "Whatever it is. It's something I want to keep figuring out."

There was a pause. And then, softer than anything else he'd said that night, Mycroft replied, "So do I."

The kettle began to whistle quietly in the background.

Neither of them moved.

Greg let the moment linger. One hand still resting on Mycroft's waist, the warmth between them thick enough to drown in. The whistle of the kettle trailed into a low hum, but neither moved to turn it off.

Finally, Greg took a breath, voice low. "You could stay, you know."

He didn't say it like a plea. Just an offer. A door left open.

Mycroft's eyes flickered, something almost – almost - wistful behind them. "I want to."

Greg's hand squeezed gently. "Then what's stopping you?"

A faint sigh escaped Mycroft as he lowered his gaze, his fingers brushing over Greg's where they rested at his side. "Sherlock."

Greg's lips quirked, not unkindly. "What's the little menace done now?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing yet. But if I don't go home, he'll take it as tacit permission to deinstall my kitchen appliances and replace them with something he saw in a spy film."

Greg chuckled under his breath. "That does sound like him."

"I can't afford the chaos right now," Mycroft added, quieter this time. "Not with everything still… in motion."

Greg didn't argue. He just nodded, brushing his thumb gently against Mycroft's hip. "Alright. But next time, I'm stealing your coat and hiding your phone. You won't have a choice."

That earned a soft huff of laughter from Mycroft. "You'd need to get past my encryption first."

Greg grinned. "I'll bribe your security detail with muffins."

"…That might actually work."

Greg leaned in, pressing a slow, warm kiss to the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "Go. Keep an eye on your brother. But you owe me a sleepover."

Mycroft straightened his posture, composed once again - but not untouched.

"I'll hold you to that."

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks passed. Mycroft was quite busy at work so there wasn't much time they got to spend together apart from the time Mycroft spent in the shop.

But despite the chaos of their schedules, something steady remained: their messages.

Quick, teasing, sometimes thoughtful. These texts had become the thread stitching the quiet hours together. Even when they couldn't be close physically, they were still present in each other's day.

January 18th

{ I dreamed of your bagels last night. The edible kind. – M }

{ You sure about that? Because last time I made them, you called them 'aggressively rustic'. xxx }

{ And yet, I ate three. You're ruining my diet – M }

{ Yeah, you did. You're welcome xxx }

January 22nd

{ Just had a customer say I look 'unreasonably happy for someone working in retail'. That's on you xxx }

{ Are you suggesting I am a corrupting influence on your gruff exterior? – M }

{ I'm saying you're ruining my street cred. I used to be broody xxx }

{ I find you far more insufferable now. It's delightful – M }

January 24th

{ You left your scarf here. Smells like you. It's going to live on the sofa now. Hope you don't mind xxx }

{ I shall press charges for theft – M }

{ Not really theft when you left it behind xxx }

{ Perhaps I'll reclaim it myself – M }

{ Threat or promise? xxx }

{ Yes – M }

January 26th, 9:17 PM

{ How's Sherlock? xxx }

{ Existing. Loudly. Currently attempting to chemically alter his tea to reduce 'emotional vulnerability'. xxx }

{ …that's not a real sentence. xxx }

{ It is in my home – M }

January 29th

{ You make mornings almost tolerable – M }

{ That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me xxx }

{ I can do better – M}

{ I'm holding you to that xxx }

Greg found himself smiling down at his phone like a teenager with a crush. And he had a feeling Mycroft was doing the exact same thing - somewhere, behind an intimidating desk, sipping an aggressively perfect cup of tea.

And when his phone buzzed again, he didn't hesitate a second to see what Mycroft had texted.

{ I've cleared my schedule for this evening. I'm cooking. Come over. 7pm sharp. – M }

Greg stared at the message for a second, grinning. Then typed back:

{ You cooking? Should I alert the fire brigade in advance or…? xxx }

{ Your lack of faith is offensive. I'll prove you wrong – M }

{ I'm counting on it. I'll bring dessert xxx }

Greg showed up at 6:58, smug in his punctuality, bottle of wine in hand - a better one than the one they had with the lion on the label - and a bag of Cat's brownies under his arm. "Because let's be honest, dear. You'll need backup if he tries to feed you raw pasta", she had said.

Mycroft's flat was obviously immaculate. Soft jazz played in the background, candles flickered on the dining table, and the faint scent of garlic and herbs wafted through from the kitchen.

Greg whistled low as he stepped inside. "Bloody hell. You have been domesticating while I wasn't looking."

Mycroft appeared from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied perfectly around his waist. "Try not to sound so surprised."

Greg stepped closer, admiring the sight. "Didn't think I'd be turned on by the sight of you near a stove, but here we are."

Mycroft didn't blush, but there was the faintest quirk of a smile. "The lasagna will take another fifteen minutes. Make yourself comfortable. Try not to snoop."

Greg flopped onto the sofa. "You invited an almost-to-be detective, mate."

"And yet I locked the study."

Greg laughed. "Coward."

They shared dinner at the table, the lasagna surprisingly excellent - though Greg would never let him live down the single overbrowned corner. They drank the wine, argued about literary tropes, and talked about nothing and everything like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Later, when the plates were cleared and the music turned down, Greg leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand. "So… is this our second proper date?"

Mycroft tilted his head, gaze warm and unguarded. "It's one of many to come."

Greg smiled, slow and sure. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."

As the conversation quieted and the soft jazz faded into the background, Greg topped off both of their glasses. The weight of the evening had shifted - lighter in some ways, more serious in others. Mycroft was watching him, expression unreadable, fingers lightly tracing the rim of his glass.

Greg leaned his elbows on the table. "Alright," he said gently. "I can tell there's something on your mind. Spill it."

Mycroft didn't immediately answer. He took a measured sip of wine, then set the glass down with deliberate care. "You remember the document you found."

Greg nodded, sitting up a little straighter. "Hard to forget."

"There's been movement," Mycroft said. "We've been able to narrow the breach down to a network that appears to have been partially active through multiple independent businesses - including Novel Grounds."

Greg exhaled, his jaw tightening. "So it was the shop."

"Not just the shop," Mycroft corrected. "It's more complicated than that. Whoever was behind it used small, trusted establishments to transfer information or meet anonymously. No digital trail. No formal contact. The café was convenient. Arthur had regulars, privacy, and enough of a paper system to make it difficult to track."

Greg looked down at the table, something cold and uneasy curling in his gut. "You think Arthur knew?"

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "But I think he may have been coerced. Or perhaps he thought he was helping someone. From what you've told me, that would be more in line with who he was."

Greg nodded slowly. "Yeah. That… that sounds like him."

"There's still a lot we don't know," Mycroft continued. "But the file you found? It wasn't meant to end up with me. It was supposed to be handed off. Someone panicked, or someone was testing me."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Testing you? Why?"

"To see how close I am to the leak. Or… how close I am to you."

Greg's stomach turned. "So what? You think someone's watching us?"

"I know they are," Mycroft said calmly. "But the surveillance has cooled off. We've been careful. And I've made it clear to my people that if anyone uses you to get to me, there will be consequences."

Greg scoffed. "Romantic."

"Effective," Mycroft replied simply.

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the truth settling between them. Then Greg reached out and covered Mycroft's hand with his own.

"So what now?"

Mycroft looked at their hands, then at Greg. "Now we wait. We stay alert. I work from my end, you stay sharp at yours. And if anything, anything at all, feels off, you come to me."

Greg gave a half-smile. "Wasn't planning to do it alone."

Mycroft's expression softened, just a little. "Good."

They sat like that for a moment, quiet but connected.

Greg leaned back slightly in his chair. The moment had turned serious again, but not heavy. Not between them. There was trust there now, even when the conversation turned toward danger.

"So…" he said slowly, tracing the rim of the glass with his thumb. "What about the file that went missing during the break-in? The one they were actually after."

Mycroft's gaze sharpened, a flicker of tension tightening around his mouth. "We're currently decoding and connecting the names and books listed."

Greg frowned. "Meaning…?"

"Meaning it's a roadmap. Not the whole picture, but enough to lead someone deeper into the network. Enough to expose sensitive information and patterns."

Greg set his glass down, jaw tensed. "And I was just the idiot who stumbled into it all."

"You were never an idiot," Mycroft said sharply. "You were… collateral. Unintended. But once your name entered the chain, I couldn't afford to leave you unprotected."

Greg huffed a dry laugh. "So your grand plan was to lurk in my café every day, critique my tea, and wait for something to happen?"

Mycroft smirked faintly. "You say that like it didn't work."

Greg gave him a look, then softened. "So… is the file still missing?"

"No," Mycroft said, leaning forward now. "We recovered it. The person who took it left a trace, sloppy work. I suspect it was intentional. A message. Which means whoever's behind this wanted us to know they were close."

Greg was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Close to you… or close to me?"

Mycroft didn't answer immediately.

And that silence was more telling than anything he could have said.

Greg let the silence linger for a beat longer, watching Mycroft, watching the slight crease between his brows, the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the stem of his glass. The weight of what they'd just discussed hovered between them, quiet and sharp.

But then Greg exhaled through his nose and pushed back from the table with a soft grunt, standing. "Right," he said, voice lighter now. "That's enough state secrets for one evening."

Mycroft blinked up at him, that flicker of guarded tension still flickering behind his eyes.

Greg turned to the kitchen counter and retrieved the container Cat had handed him earlier. "Now, brace yourself," he said, setting it down in front of Mycroft with dramatic flair. "Because the real national treasure has arrived."

He flipped the lid open with a flourish. "Cat's brownies. You'll never be the same."

Mycroft looked down at the dense, cocoa-rich squares like he was evaluating nuclear launch codes. "They appear… unassuming."

Greg barked a laugh. "Unassuming? You're about to be humbled."

He grabbed a slice and took a huge bite, eyes fluttering shut in exaggerated bliss. "Mmmph. Honestly. I'd trade state secrets for these."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but reached for one himself, taking a delicate, measured bite. He chewed once. Then again. Paused.

And then, very quietly said, "Good god."

Greg grinned, triumphant. "Told you."

"They're… fudgy."

"That's the word."

"And slightly salted."

"Balance," Greg nodded wisely.

"And… addictive."

"Yup," Greg said, already reaching for another. "Now imagine living a life where these exist and not stuffing your face with at least three."

Mycroft gave him a dry look but, for the first time in what felt like hours, his shoulders relaxed. A hint of something warmer tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Greg slid the container closer. "Help yourself, Mr. Holmes. You're safe tonight."

And just like that, the shadow of politics and espionage faded behind the warm scent of chocolate and the sound of shared laughter.

They'd both overindulged. Lasagna, wine, two brownies each, and a third Greg had insisted on splitting 'for science'. Now, stretched out on Mycroft's sleek-but-cozy couch, the only thing either of them had the energy for was the slow, unhurried press of mouths and the occasional half-hearted mumble about not being able to move.

Greg had one arm draped over Mycroft's middle, fingers lazily tracing the hem of his shirt. Mycroft's head rested against the armrest, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, his hand curled loosely around Greg's shoulder.

Their kisses were soft, sleepily affectionate. Not the kind that led to more, but the kind that said I'm full, I'm content, I'm exactly where I want to be.

Greg hummed against Mycroft's mouth, smiling without opening his eyes. "If I kiss you again, I might actually pass out mid-snog."

Mycroft chuckled, low and fond. "Then perhaps we should pace ourselves."

"You offering me a schedule?" Greg teased, nuzzling lazily into his neck.

"Merely a suggestion," Mycroft murmured. "One can't expect peak performance while experiencing a food coma."

Greg laughed, breath warm against his skin. "Snogging you doesn't require peak performance, y'know. I'd settle for a six out of ten."

Mycroft shifted slightly, letting his fingers glide into Greg's hair. "And deprive you of the full experience? I think not."

Greg huffed a pleased little noise, brushing another kiss to the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "You're such a show-off."

"And yet you keep asking for encore performances."

Their laughter melted into silence again, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as one of them adjusted, or the soft sound of breathing in sync. Outside, the city hummed on in the distance, muffled by thick windows and the late hour.

Inside, wrapped up in each other, everything was quiet. Easy. Safe.

Greg sighed contentedly and murmured, "Might just fall asleep right here."

Mycroft's voice was softer than ever. "You'd be welcome to."

Greg let his eyes drift shut for a moment, soaking in the warmth pressed around him - the faint cologne clinging to Mycroft's collar, the low rumble of breath beneath his ear. It was all so easy, so settled.

But then a faint twinge in his back from the slightly-too-firm angle of the armrest made him shift and groan. "Alright," he mumbled, "as nice as this is, I'm calling it - your sofa's trying to kill me."

Mycroft let out a quiet huff. "It's Italian."

"Yeah, well, it's also designed for looking at, not sleeping on," Greg grumbled, stretching a leg with a wince. "I'd rather have the bed."

There was a pause. Then a dry, amused murmur: "Would you now?"

Greg cracked one eye open to catch the faint smirk tugging at Mycroft's lips. "Don't act like you didn't expect that. I've seen your bedroom door, mate. It looks like it guards Narnia. No way that bed isn't outrageously comfortable."

Mycroft made a soft sound of mock offense. "You're suggesting I use luxury to seduce people?"

Greg grinned. "I'm suggesting if I don't get to experience those thread counts firsthand, I'll riot."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "You're very demanding when full of lasagna."

"I'm full of lasagna and charm, thank you," Greg said, sitting up slightly and rubbing at his neck. "So? What do you say, Holmes? Am I being escorted to the royal chambers or not?"

Mycroft rose with effortless grace, straightening the cuffs of his sleeves and offering a hand. "Only if you promise not to critique the mattress."

Greg took his hand, letting Mycroft pull him up. "Can't promise anything."

They padded through the flat, the shift in mood still soft but laced with something warmer now - anticipation curled around domesticity. And as Mycroft pushed open the heavy bedroom door, Greg whistled low under his breath.

"Bloody hell. You were trying to spoil me."

Mycroft just smirked and held the covers back. "Get in before you embarrass yourself further."

Greg grinned, tossing his jumper onto the chair by the wall. "Too late for that."

Then, with absolutely no grace and every ounce of dramatic flair, he flopped face-first onto the bed. The mattress welcomed him like a cloud - firm beneath the softness, supportive in all the right places. Greg let out a low, satisfied groan into the duvet, his limbs splaying wide as he slowly sank into it.

"My god," he mumbled, voice muffled against the pristine sheets. "This isn't a bed. This is a lifestyle."

Behind him, Mycroft closed the bedroom door with a soft click. "I take it you approve?"

Greg rolled onto his back, hair sticking up, an utterly blissed-out smile spreading across his face. "I'm not sure if I want to marry you or the mattress. Bit of a toss-up, really."

Mycroft, now undoing the buttons of his shirt at a calm, unhurried pace, gave him a look that was one part amusement and two parts smug satisfaction. "It's custom. Egyptian cotton. Orthopaedic support."

Greg's eyes fluttered closed as he stretched like a cat. "You absolute bastard. I'm never leaving."

"You say that as though I would object."

That made Greg crack one eye open. He watched Mycroft slip out of his shirt, folding it neatly, always meticulous even now. "Do you ever relax?" Greg asked, voice low and fond.

"Rarely," Mycroft admitted. "But I'm beginning to make exceptions."

Greg shifted, propping himself up on one elbow as he looked at Mycroft properly in the soft light of the bedroom. His gaze drifted slowly from Mycroft's now bare torso to the way the lamplight carved shadows along his collarbone and jaw.

"You know," Greg said, voice warm and unfiltered, "you really are beautiful. Sexy as hell, too."

Mycroft paused mid-motion, belt half off, and gave Greg a look - not flustered, but quietly affected. He finished taking off his trousers, folding them with precise, practiced care before placing them on the chair. "Flattery, Gregory?" he said, eyebrow raised, though his tone lacked any real deflection.

Greg watched him, eyes following the movement. "Christ, even undressing you make it look like a performance at the opera."

"I prefer things neat."

"Mm," Greg hummed, clearly enjoying the view. But as Mycroft reached for his folded pyjama set, Greg sat up a little. "Don't."

Mycroft blinked. "Don't what?"

Greg nodded toward the pyjamas. "Wear that."

A pause. "And what, exactly, do you suggest instead?"

Greg's smirk turned slow and suggestive. "Nothing."

Mycroft raised both brows, clearly unamused, but the way the corners of his mouth curved gave him away. "You're impossible."

"And you're stalling," Greg replied, patting the mattress beside him. "Come to bed, Holmes. Exceptions and all."

Mycroft hesitated only a second longer before he obliged, slipping under the covers beside Greg with a quiet exhale. Close enough for their knees to touch, close enough for the air between them to grow warmer still.

Mycroft let out a quiet breath and shifted against the pillows, the comfort of the bed and the weight of Greg beside him creating a rare sense of calm. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch Greg's gaze in the soft lighting.

"We should probably brush our teeth," he murmured, his voice low, "before we fall asleep here like two reckless idiots."

Greg groaned dramatically, burying his face into the pillow for a moment before rolling onto his back. "You are such a buzzkill, you know that?" he muttered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered. "Or a responsible adult."

Greg sighed with exaggerated reluctance, but the smirk on his face betrayed him. "Fine, fine. Let it never be said I don't know how to be persuaded by a well-dressed killjoy."

He pushed himself up, stretching like a cat as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Lead the way, then. Might as well make our smiles dazzle tomorrow."

Mycroft gave a quiet, amused hum and turned toward the ensuite bathroom. Greg followed a moment later, bare feet padding across the floor.

The bathroom was as meticulously kept as the rest of the flat. Marble counters, neatly arranged toiletries, soft lighting that cast everything in a calming golden hue.

Greg caught his reflection in the mirror and chuckled. "I look awful."

Mycroft passed him a new toothbrush. "We look like two men who had too much wine, too much lasagna, and too much of these awful delicious brownies."

Greg snorted as he brushed, but couldn't argue with that. As the sound of shared silence and running water filled the space, it felt less like routine and more like ritual - quiet, domestic, and oddly grounding.

When they returned to the bedroom minutes later, teeth cleaned and laughter softened, they climbed under the covers.

Greg turned onto his side to face Mycroft. "So… first night in the infamous Holmes chamber. Am I being vetted for recurring status?"

Mycroft didn't answer immediately. His eyes were steady, studying Greg the way he always did - sharp, thoughtful, but not guarded.

"No vetting," he said at last. "If you're here, it's because I want you to be."

Greg blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of it. Then he smiled - slow, genuine, a little crooked. "Well. You sure know how to charm a bloke."

"I do try."

They lay there for a beat, the soft hush of the flat wrapping around them.

Greg glanced up at the ceiling. "Still can't believe I'm in your bed."

"You're welcome to stay," Mycroft said quietly.

Greg reached out, fingers brushing against Mycroft's under the duvet.

"I think I will."

The next morning, Greg woke slowly, the soft glow of morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains. For a long moment, he just lay there warm, tangled in unfamiliar sheets that smelled faintly of Mycroft's cologne and something crisp and clean.

This Saturday was one of the rare ones - one of the precious ones - where Cat and Tom were taking over the shop for the day, giving Greg two full days off in a row for once.

He turned his head and found Mycroft still asleep beside him, one arm relaxed against the pillow, features uncharacteristically peaceful. No tension in his brow. No sharp edges to his expression. Just quiet.

Greg smiled faintly to himself. Wouldn't have pegged him for a late sleeper.

He eased out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him. His clothes from the night before - shirt, jumper, jeans - were still draped over the chair where he'd left them. He hadn't expected to stay the night, so no spare change. Still, he'd make do.

Padding barefoot into the hallway, Greg found the kitchen by memory. It was just as sleek and modern as the rest of the flat, all black marble and stainless steel. The coffee machine on the counter looked like it belonged in a Bond film.

He stared at it for a long moment, then muttered, "Alright, let's see if you're smarter than me."

Thankfully, the interface was surprisingly intuitive, and soon enough the scent of fresh espresso began to fill the space. Greg rummaged around until he found mugs. Of course, they matched the cutlery and the plates in perfectly organized cabinets. He set about making two cups. Black for Mycroft, milk and sugar for himself.

Then, with the quiet confidence of someone who had learned his way around many kitchens before, he put together breakfast. Toast, eggs, tomatoes, avocado and bacon. Nothing fancy, but enough to feel like something more than just 'morning after'.

By the time the table was set, the aroma of coffee and cooking had filled the apartment. Greg leaned against the counter, sipping from his mug, and cast a glance toward the hallway.

A few seconds passed.

Then - footsteps. The soft shuffle of movement in the bedroom, followed by the quiet clink of hangers. Drawers opening and closing with characteristic precision. Greg smiled into his coffee. Mycroft Holmes didn't just wake up. He reassembled himself.

Sure enough, a few moments later, Mycroft appeared in the doorway, impeccably put together, but not in his usual full armour of waistcoat and tie. Today, it was soft grey slacks, a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just above the elbows, and no shoes. His hair was still damp from a quick shower, swept neatly back, and the faintest trace of aftershave lingered in the air.

Greg raised his mug in salute. "Look at you. Casual Holmes. Thought I'd never see the day."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, but there was a trace of amusement at the corners of his mouth. "I can be casual."

Greg snorted. "That shirt's worth more than my whole wardrobe, and you folded your socks before coming in here."

"Would you prefer I arrived in disarray?"

Greg grinned. "Honestly? I don't think you're physically capable."

Mycroft crossed the room with quiet ease, noting the breakfast laid out on the table. He paused beside Greg, reaching for the black coffee mug Greg had prepared for him. "You made use of the machine."

"I survived it, yes."

"And breakfast," Mycroft added, eyeing the plates.

Greg shrugged, trying for casual and mostly failing. "Figured I owed you. For the hospitality. And the mattress."

Mycroft took a sip of coffee, eyes steady over the rim of the cup. "You didn't owe me anything."

Greg rolled his eyes, pushing off the counter to gesture at the table. "Yeah, well, let me pretend I'm a decent guest."

Mycroft didn't argue. Instead, he placed a hand briefly on Greg's lower back as they both moved toward the table - a gesture small, almost absent-minded, but grounding all the same.

They sat.

And for a few minutes, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the occasional sip of coffee - two men wrapped in morning light, falling into a rhythm that felt dangerously easy.

Halfway through his second piece of toast, Greg glanced up from his plate, watching Mycroft sip his coffee with the kind of restraint that made it seem like even caffeine bowed to his control.

"So…" Greg began, voice light, "do you work on Saturdays?"

Mycroft didn't look up right away. "Technically? No."

Greg's eyebrows lifted. "That sounded suspiciously vague."

Mycroft finally met his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Let's just say my work has a way of finding me. Even on weekends."

Greg leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. "That code for someone's already emailed you six classified emergencies and a diplomatic meltdown before breakfast?"

Mycroft gave the faintest sigh. "Only four."

Greg laughed, shaking his head. "And here I thought I was the overachiever in this relationship."

There was a flicker of something at the word relationship, but Mycroft didn't flinch. If anything, he seemed… steadier. Like the word had landed, been processed, and stored without objection.

"I'm making an effort," Mycroft said, nodding toward the breakfast plate. "See? I'm seated. I'm eating. That's already several steps removed from a typical Saturday."

Greg raised an eyebrow, amused. "Alright then, Mr. Effort. What is your typical Saturday like?"

Mycroft looked at him over the rim of his mug, as if weighing just how much to reveal. "Usually? Up by six. E-Mails by six-thirty. Light breakfast. Briefing with whichever poor soul has been assigned to my Saturday clearance queue. Followed by a few hours of document review or internal communications. Occasionally interrupted by some diplomatic incident I'm expected to clean up, despite it not being my department."

Greg blinked. "That's your relaxed day?"

"Relatively speaking, yes."

"Jesus," Greg muttered. "And I thought I was bad at weekends."

"You are," Mycroft said smoothly. "But mine are structured."

Greg leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. "So no lie-ins? No telly with takeaway? No sitting around in your pants, ignoring the world?"

Mycroft gave him a dry look. "I'm afraid not."

Greg made a face. "That's tragic. You've never had a real Saturday."

"And yet I've survived."

Greg hummed, picking at a crumb on his plate. "You know," he said, a little slower, "you are technically off today. We could fix that."

Mycroft arched a brow. "Fix what?"

Greg gestured vaguely. "The entire concept. Introduce you to the ancient art of doing nothing. Properly."

"I'm not sure I'm qualified."

Greg smirked. "You've got a good teacher."

And for the first time that morning, Mycroft smiled, not his usual polite curve, but something real, relaxed.

"Alright," Mycroft said, softly. "Show me."

Greg had just opened his mouth to make some cheeky suggestion about dragging Mycroft to the sofa for a proper lazy morning when the sharp buzz of Mycroft's phone cut through the air.

The smile on Mycroft's face faded almost immediately.

He glanced at the screen, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening ever so slightly. "Apologies," he murmured, already rising from his chair. "I have to take this."

Greg nodded, trying to hide his disappointment behind a sip of coffee. "Duty calls?"

"Relentlessly," Mycroft replied, slipping from the room with quiet urgency, already tapping to accept the call as he disappeared down the hallway.

Greg let out a soft sigh and leaned back in his chair, staring at the now half-empty breakfast table.

So much for Saturday morning laziness.

He pushed his fork around the remains of his eggs, the silence Mycroft left behind oddly louder than it should've been. Not cold or distant, just... incomplete. Like a record that had skipped.

The comfort of the flat remained - sunlight warming the kitchen tiles, the faint clink of mugs still echoing in the space - but the ease of their moment was gone.

Greg reached for his coffee and muttered to himself with a crooked smile, "So much for ancient arts."

Still, he couldn't be mad.

Not when he knew exactly what kind of world Mycroft moved through. One phone call could mean anything. And if Greg had learned anything these past weeks, it was that when Mycroft got called, it wasn't ever for something small.

Even so, he couldn't help but hope that when the call ended… Mycroft would come back.

Mycroft returned about ten minutes later, the familiar edge of tension back in his shoulders. His tie was still absent, but the way he straightened his cuffs and reached for the jacket he'd abandoned the night before told Greg everything he needed to know.

Greg sat up a little from his slouch in the chair. "That bad?"

Mycroft gave him a look that wasn't quite an apology, but not far from it either. "I'm needed at the office. It wasn't supposed to escalate, but well. It has."

Greg nodded slowly, not surprised, but still a little disappointed. "Right. Crisis o'clock, then."

"I won't be long," Mycroft said, though he didn't sound convinced even as he said it. He paused at the end of the table, eyes flicking to the cleared dishes and Greg's half-finished coffee.

"You're welcome to stay, if you like," he added, quieter now. "Make yourself at home. I just… don't know how long I'll be."

Greg gave him a crooked smile. "You're offering me the run of the Holmes palace?"

"It would appear so."

Greg stood, crossing the distance to him with slow, deliberate steps, eyes fixed on Mycroft's. "I'll stick around for a bit," he said softly. "Might even tidy your bookshelves. Alphabetical order's a bit passé, you know."

Mycroft's lips twitched, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Please don't."

"I make no promises."

Before Mycroft could reply, Greg leaned in and pressed a kiss to his lips. Not hurried, not demanding - just warm, grounding, and entirely sincere. His hand rose briefly to the back of Mycroft's neck, thumb brushing lightly against his skin as their mouths met.

When they parted, Mycroft's eyes opened slowly. His expression had softened in a way Greg wasn't sure he'd ever seen.

"Come back in one piece," Greg murmured.

"I'll do my best," Mycroft replied, voice quiet.

He lingered a moment longer, like he didn't want to leave, but then turned toward the door. With the soft click of keys and the final hush of it closing behind him, he was gone.

Greg stood there for a beat, lips still tingling, heart thudding somewhere behind his ribs.

And now, alone in Mycroft Holmes' flat - surrounded by polished quiet, forgotten breakfast dishes, and the faint trace of cologne in the air - Greg let himself smile.

That flutter in his chest wasn't going anywhere.

Greg set about doing the dishes first, rinsing off the remains of their breakfast with the kind of casual comfort that came from feeling like he belonged, even just a little bit, in someone else's space.

The water was warm, the silence peaceful, and once everything was neatly drying on the rack, Greg dried his hands on a linen towel and glanced around the kitchen.

The flat still had that echo of absence, like Mycroft had only just left and the air hadn't figured it out yet.

With a quiet hum of curiosity, Greg padded barefoot across the polished floors and started exploring.

He moved past the kitchen and living room - clean lines, minimal clutter, shelves of books that looked more curated than lived-in - and down the hallway he hadn't ventured down the night before. One door opened to a guest room, tidy and unused, bed made with military precision and not a wrinkle in sight. The furniture was nice but impersonal. Probably where Sherlock was staying while Mycroft had to keep an eye on him.

The next door revealed what could only be Mycroft's study. And unlike the rest of the flat, this room felt full. Not messy - no, Mycroft wouldn't allow that - but full of presence. Stacks of papers in neatly arranged trays, maps with red markings pinned to a corkboard behind a closed desk, books on politics and espionage and obscure history lining the walls. A leather chair sat behind the desk, and beside it, a lamp with an old-world brass base that softened the corners of the room with a warm glow.

Greg stepped inside slowly, taking it all in.

There was something intimate about seeing it, like opening a drawer into someone's mind. A mind he was very quickly falling for.

He didn't touch anything. Just looked. Just stood there and breathed it all in. Because this was Mycroft too.

Not the one sipping black coffee with a quirked brow. Not the one slipping out for classified calls. But the man behind it all, quietly holding the weight of everything on his shoulders.

After quietly closing the door to Mycroft's study, Greg wandered back toward the living room. He grabbed the remote from the sleek glass coffee table and sank onto the sofa, sighing as the cushions gave beneath him with perfect softness.

He flipped through the channels. Eventually he landed on something low-stakes and mildly ridiculous - an old cooking competition where everyone was far too enthusiastic about soufflés. It was exactly the kind of background noise he needed. Comfortable. Familiar.

His phone buzzed on the armrest beside him.

Matt.

Greg smirked and answered it without hesitation.

"Should I be worried you're calling instead of texting?" he said by way of greeting.

Matt's voice came through, smug and bright. "You're the one shacking up in MI6's bachelor pad and I'm the one under surveillance? That's rich."

Greg laughed. "I'm not shacking up. I stayed over. Once. And he had to go into work, so I'm just killing time."

"Yeah, killing time in the poshest flat in London, no doubt drinking coffee that costs more than my car."

"It's gone cold, actually," Greg said, glancing at his mug and nudging it with his toe.

There was a beat of silence. Then Matt asked, more serious this time, "So… how is it? You and him."

Greg blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. He let his head fall back against the cushion and stared at the ceiling.

"It's…" he started, then paused. "Weird. And brilliant. And a little intense, if I'm honest. But it's… good. He's good."

Matt hummed. "You sound stupidly happy."

"I think I might be," Greg admitted, quietly.

"Gross," Matt muttered, but Greg could hear the grin. "Alright. I'll let you get back to whatever Bond-level nonsense you're watching. Just promise me you'll text me if he brings out a laser pen or a trapdoor in the kitchen."

Greg laughed. "Deal."

They hung up, and the silence returned - comforting this time.

Greg settled deeper into the sofa, phone still in hand, and let himself just be for a moment. Warm. Safe. Waiting.

Eventually, the overly dramatic soufflé disaster on screen lost its charm, and Greg muted the telly, letting the images flicker soundlessly as he sat in the soft quiet of the flat. The stillness was nice, but the boredom was starting to creep in around the edges.

With a stretch and a yawn, he swung his legs off the sofa and reached for the stack of books on the coffee table. Of course they were neatly arranged. Titles aligned, covers uncreased. It was so Mycroft it made Greg smile.

He skimmed the spines until one caught his eye. A slim hardcover, elegantly bound in deep navy blue with gold-lettered print across the front.

He hadn't read this one before.

He turned it over, scanned the synopsis on the back, then cracked it open. A novel about espionage in Cold War Europe - dense prose, dry wit, layered characters. It shouldn't have hooked him as fast as it did… but something about the writing pulled him in.

Just a chapter, he told himself.

But two hours passed like mist through fingers.

He didn't even realize how far he'd sunk into the cushions until he looked up and noticed the light outside had changed, late afternoon slipping into early evening. He stretched, cracking his neck, still holding the book loosely in one hand, when his phone buzzed beside him on the coffee table.

Mycroft.

He sat up straighter, marking his place in the book with a coaster - he doubted Mycroft would approve, but he wasn't about to lose his spot - and swiped to answer.

"Holmes," he said, voice warm despite the teasing edge, "I was starting to think I'd have to send in a search party."

There was a pause on the other end, followed by the familiar low timbre of Mycroft's voice. "Then I'm glad I've called before you mobilised emergency services."

Greg grinned and leaned back into the cushions. "Bit touch and go there for a moment. I've already reorganised your bookshelf in my head and insulted your coffee machine. Not much else left."

"Dare I ask what you've done to my literature?"

"Relax," Greg said. "I only picked up one. Spy novel. Cold War. Very on brand for you. It's actually brilliant."

Another pause, longer this time. Then, quieter: "I'm glad you're still there."

Greg's smile softened, a small flutter rising in his chest. "Course I'm still here. Wasn't planning to break and enter a second location."

"You joke," Mycroft said, "but I do find it oddly reassuring."

"Everything alright on your end?" Greg asked, the shift in tone subtle, but sincere.

Mycroft exhaled, the sound faint over the line. "It's been… complicated. But manageable."

Greg didn't press. He never did, not unless Mycroft offered first.

"Well, if it helps, I'm holding your flat hostage until you return."

"That's remarkably bold of you," Mycroft said, and Greg could hear the trace of a smile in it now.

Greg grinned. "I'm getting used to the place."

"Don't run off," Mycroft said after a beat.

"I won't," Greg replied. "Not going anywhere."

There was a pause on the line, the kind that always made Greg brace for the worst.

Then Mycroft's voice came, slightly quieter than before, tinged with fatigue. "I'll be home… in a couple more hours. Perhaps three, if things remain stable."

Greg exhaled, slumping back into the sofa cushions. "Alright. Thought for a second you were about to cancel entirely."

"I considered it," Mycroft admitted. "But no. I'd rather not."

Greg's smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, that's something."

"I didn't want you waiting with no update," Mycroft continued. "Feel free to cook, or order something if you prefer. My account is already linked to the delivery apps."

Greg let out a soft laugh. "You really have thought of everything."

"Hardly," Mycroft said. "But I try."

There was a beat, then Greg added, "Nah. I'll wait as I've said."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," Greg interrupted gently. "I'll be here when you get in."

Another pause, softer this time.

"Alright," Mycroft said. "Then I'll do my best not to keep you waiting too long."

Greg could hear the sincerity buried beneath the calm. "Take your time," he said. "Just come home."

After ending the call, Greg stared at the now-dark screen of his phone for a long moment, thumb idly brushing over the edges.

Three hours, he thought. Not ideal, but doable.

He picked up the book again, nestling deeper into the corner of the sofa and finding his place easily. It wasn't long before the story pulled him back in - twisting tension, clever dialogue, shadowy backrooms in Cold War Berlin. He could almost see why Mycroft had it on the table.

Still, after another few chapters, his focus started to fray. His muscles felt stiff from lounging all day, and the lingering warmth of the flat made him crave something refreshing. He dog-eared the page - yes, he knew Mycroft would make a face - and set the book on the coffee table.

Time to freshen up.

He wandered down the hall to the bathroom. Greg undressed and turned the water on hot.

Steam began to fill the room as he stepped inside the shower, letting the heat hit his skin in waves. He braced a hand against the tiled wall and sighed as tension melted from his shoulders. He hadn't realized just how much he needed this. No customers, no break-ins, no questions. Just the steady pulse of water and the thought of Mycroft eventually walking through the door.

Greg closed his eyes, letting the sound wash over him.

He could wait.

Because tonight, for once, the end of the day felt like something to look forward to.

Greg reached for one of the sleek bottles neatly arranged on a recessed shelf in the shower, turning it over in his hand with a low whistle. "Of course you posh git," he muttered with a smirk, unscrewing the cap and breathing in the sharp, clean scent. Eucalyptus, cedarwood, and something distinctly Mycroft.

He poured a bit into his palm and lathered it between his hands, the rich formula foaming instantly under the hot water. As he ran it over his chest and shoulders, the scent deepened, clinging to his skin in a way that was both luxurious and oddly intimate.

This is what he smells like, Greg thought, closing his eyes for a moment. It was strange, how scent alone could feel like a presence. Like Mycroft was somehow there, lingering just behind him in the rising steam.

He reached for the matching shampoo next, already imagining Mycroft's unimpressed reaction to him messing with his perfectly ordered bathroom regimen. "Don't worry," he said to the bottle, grinning to himself. "I'll put it back exactly how I found it."

The shampoo smelled just as crisp and expensive, and Greg worked it through his hair slowly, letting the lather sink in as the water pounded against his back.

It was indulgent. Ridiculously so. And yet it made him feel a little closer. Like he'd stepped into Mycroft's world in the quietest, most personal way.

As he rinsed off, fingers combing the last of the soap from his hair, Greg couldn't help but think, if this was what waiting felt like, he could get used to it.

Wrapped in a towel and trailing steam behind him, Greg made his way into the bedroom. He opened one of the wardrobe doors and blinked. Rows of suits in shades of grey, navy, and black lined the rail, all perfectly spaced, clearly organized by season and tone. Below that, drawers and shelves held an array of precisely folded garments.

He rifled through one drawer, eyebrows raising at the neat rows of socks, all matched and rolled with near robotic symmetry. Another held underwear - silk, cotton, no loud patterns in sight.

Greg plucked out a fresh pair of dark boxer briefs and a pair of black socks, snickering under his breath. "Even your pants are coordinated. Unreal."

Next, he turned to the shelf holding a selection of jumpers and casual shirts. He spotted a charcoal wool jumper, soft to the touch and smelling faintly of Mycroft's cologne and clean linen. He tugged it from the stack and pulled it over his head after quickly towelling off.

It fit surprisingly well. Slightly loose in the shoulders, snug around the waist. Comfortable, warm, and undeniably Mycroft.

Greg looked at himself in the full-length mirror by the closet, raising a brow at the sight. "Well," he muttered, "look at me. Practically respectable."

Wrapped in Mycroft's wool jumper and freshly showered, Greg made his way to the kitchen, still towelling off his damp hair. The flat was quiet, the lights casting a soft golden glow over the marble countertops. He filled the kettle, set it on to boil, and rummaged around in the cupboard for tea leaves, finding the stash with a satisfied little grin.

"Only the good stuff, of course," he muttered, inspecting the label.

The kettle clicked off with a soft pop, steam curling into the air as he reached for a mug.

And that's when he heard it - the soft click of the front door, followed by the quiet rustle of a coat being removed and shoes shifting on polished floors.

Greg turned toward the kitchen entrance, mug still in hand, just as Mycroft stepped into the doorway.

He looked tired, his usual sharp lines a little softened by the long day, but his gaze sharpened the moment it landed on Greg.

His eyes swept over him - tousled hair still damp, wrapped up in a jumper that clearly didn't belong to him - his jumper.

Greg arched an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. "Hope you don't mind the theft."

Mycroft didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he crossed the threshold, slowly, gaze lingering a second too long on the way the jumper hugged Greg's frame. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than usual, measured, but with an edge of something warmer beneath.

"I should be furious," he said. "That jumper is cashmere."

Greg smirked. "Would it help if I told you I smell amazing now? Courtesy of your posh soap."

Mycroft's mouth twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. He stepped closer, one hand brushing over the hem of the jumper as he passed Greg to lean on the counter. "You look…"

Greg tilted his head. "Yeah?"

"...Domestic," Mycroft said after a beat. "Which is alarming. And deeply inconvenient."

Greg poured the water into his mug, still grinning. "Yeah, you look devastated, standing there thinking about it."

Mycroft's fingers grazed his wrist as he took the mug from him gently, setting it aside. "You wearing my clothes is a problem."

Greg stepped in, closing the gap between them. "Why's that?"

"Because it makes me want to do very irresponsible things," Mycroft murmured, voice low.

Greg's grin only widened. "Lucky for you, I've got nowhere else to be."

Mycroft's eyes darkened just slightly, his thumb still brushing along the edge of the counter near Greg's hand. He leaned in, voice dropping lower. "If I weren't absolutely starving, we wouldn't even make it to the bedroom. I'd have you right here."

Greg's breath hitched, heat flaring behind his ribcage at the sheer precision of that tone. But he recovered quickly, the corners of his mouth curling into a slow, wicked grin.

"Then it's a good thing we can multitask," he murmured, pushing gently into Mycroft's space. "We'll order food… and while we wait?" He leaned close, their noses nearly touching, voice a playful whisper. "We'll work up our appetite even more."

Mycroft exhaled, restrained but sharp, like he was calculating the risk versus reward in real time. "You're a menace," he said.

"You love it," Greg shot back, already reaching for his phone with one hand, the other casually resting on Mycroft's hip. "Chinese or Indian?"

"I don't care," Mycroft replied, "So long as you don't make me regret not dragging you straight to the bedroom."

Greg smirked, tapping in the takeaway order with one hand while letting the other roam up Mycroft's back. "Deal. Just remember. You're the one who walked in and got all possessive the second you saw me in your jumper."

"And yet somehow," Mycroft muttered, brushing his lips lightly against Greg's jaw, "I don't feel even remotely sorry for that."

Greg's fingers danced across the screen of his phone, tapping through the final steps of the order with only half his attention. The other half - most of him, honestly - was entirely consumed by the feel of Mycroft's mouth on his neck.

Soft, slow kisses at first, deliberate and unhurried. Mycroft's hands had settled firmly on Greg's hips, fingers curling just slightly through the wool of the stolen jumper as if to keep him still. Anchored.

Greg shivered at the warmth of Mycroft's breath just beneath his ear, barely managing to hit confirm on the delivery app.

"There," he said, voice already sounding too breathless for someone who just ordered takeout. "Food in forty minutes."

Mycroft didn't respond with words.

Instead, he tilted his head and pressed a firmer kiss to the curve of Greg's neck, just where it met his shoulder. Greg hissed softly, his head tipping back as his free hand found the front of Mycroft's shirt and tugged.

"You're really trying to make me forget I'm hungry," he muttered.

"On the contrary," Mycroft murmured against his skin, voice like silk, "I'm reminding you what you're hungry for."

Greg swore under his breath, the phone dropping with a soft thud to the countertop as he finally gave in.

He barely had time to react before Mycroft's hand curled firmly around his wrist, and with a quiet, authoritative "Come here," he was being pulled down the hallway.

The corridor was dim, lit only by the soft ambient light from the living room. Greg's heart thudded as they passed the guest room and study, straight to the door at the end. Mycroft's bedroom.

Again.

This time, not by accident. Not because of chance or convenience. This time, because they wanted to.

The door swung open, and Greg was guided inside, the familiar scent of Mycroft's cologne and freshly laundered sheets wrapping around him like a second skin. The world outside, the café, the work, the mess of unanswered questions, faded into the background.

They didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

The door shut quietly behind them.

And somewhere, on the counter in the kitchen, the food order confirmation blinked quietly on Greg's phone - forgotten for now.

Because their hunger for food could wait, but their hunger for each other couldn't.

Chapter Text

It was harder than Greg expected, stepping into the familiar creak of the stairs above Novel Grounds, the scent of old books and faint traces of Cat's latest batch of cinnamon scones wafting up from the closed café below. It should have felt like home.

And it was in all the practical ways. His things were here. His routines. The little details of his daily life, the scratchy old jumper he tossed over the back of the armchair, the stack of paperwork waiting to be filed in the office. This was his world.

But without Mycroft?

It felt quieter. Duller. Like something had been unplugged.

The weekend had been… blissful didn't even cover it. After dinner on Saturday, they'd curled up on Mycroft's plush sofa, intending to watch some award-winning historical drama that, of course, Mycroft had queued up. Greg hadn't lasted fifteen minutes before kissing him. Mycroft, to Greg's immense satisfaction, hadn't objected. They'd snogged their way through half the runtime, the film long forgotten, background noise to something far more compelling.

And Sunday?

Sunday had been lazy in the best way. They'd barely left the bed, save for breakfast, coffee, and the occasional need to stretch and laugh and pull each other back beneath the covers. The hours blurred into one long stretch of warmth, affection, and skin-on-skin silence.

Greg hadn't wanted it to end. But Mycroft, ever the practical one, had quietly arranged for a car and made sure Greg had a coat and his phone and a few snacks tucked into the side pocket of his bag, because of course he had.

Now, standing in his own kitchen, Greg turned on the kettle without really thinking, his body moving through muscle memory while his thoughts lingered behind.

The flat felt too still. Too much like before.

Despite the ache of leaving that weekend behind, Greg's body didn't let him linger in it for long.

By Monday morning, his alarm buzzed insistently at half-past six, dragging him from dreams still fogged with warm skin, soft sheets, and the way Mycroft's voice sounded when half-asleep and unguarded. He groaned into the pillow, considered throwing the alarm across the room. Then sighed and got up instead.

Routine clicked in automatically.

He opened the shop like he always did, flicking on the lights and the old rock playlist Arthur used to love. He swept the floor, unlocked the front door, and scrawled the specials on the chalkboard outside with practiced ease. He took care of the early deliveries, unpacked a new shipment of second-hand novels, checked the café stock, and placed fresh orders for milk, pastries, and tea.

It was all familiar. Comforting, even. The hum of the espresso machine, the warm clink of mugs, the bell above the door ringing with the usual rhythm of regulars and curious tourists alike.

And through it all, one thought curled steadily through his mind:

4 p.m.

That was all he cared about.

That moment when the bell would ring and Mycroft would walk through the door. When he'd order his tea with that ever-specific instruction, leave a too-generous tip, and sit at his table like he belonged there.

Greg didn't know when that had started feeling like the highlight of his day.

But it had.

And now, it was all he was waiting for.

The bell above the door gave its usual soft chime at exactly 4:00 p.m., but Greg knew something was off before he even looked up.

The air shifted. The warmth in his chest, the quiet anticipation that usually came with Mycroft's arrival, was met instead by a low flicker of concern.

Greg glanced up from the counter, dish towel in hand, and stilled.

Mycroft stood just inside the doorway, coat still buttoned, scarf neatly tucked into place. But his posture was tighter than usual - shoulders drawn, jaw clenched. His eyes scanned the café like they always did, but this time it wasn't habit. It was calculation.

And then those eyes met Greg's.

They held for a beat longer than normal.

Greg set the towel down. "Afternoon," he said lightly, trying to bridge the tension without calling it out. "Tea?"

Mycroft nodded once. "Please."

He moved toward the counter, each step deliberate, measured. Greg watched him with growing unease. The usual comments didn't come, no raised brow at the chalkboard misspelling, no subtle remark about the music being half a beat too fast.

Nothing, just silence.

Greg turned to prepare the tea - hands steady, routine automatic - but his mind was racing.

When he turned back around with the mug in hand, Mycroft was waiting, still wordless. Greg passed it to him gently, fingers brushing over Mycroft's just slightly.

"You alright?" he asked quietly, his voice just for the two of them.

Mycroft hesitated. Then, in a voice much lower than usual, he murmured, "We may have a problem."

Greg's expression shifted instantly - his easy charm gone, replaced by something sharp, focused. He set the tea down firmly on the counter and stepped a little closer.

"Right," he said under his breath. "I'll grab Cat from the back. She can watch the shop for a bit."

Mycroft gave a curt nod, his eyes never leaving Greg's.

Greg didn't need to be told twice. He wiped his hands on a towel and slipped through the swinging door behind the counter, where Cat was sorting through the latest bakery order and humming to herself.

"Cat," Greg said quietly, "can you keep an eye on things out front for a bit?"

She looked up immediately, eyes narrowing. "Why? What's happened?"

Greg grabbed his jacket from the hook. "Nothing yet. But Mycroft's here. And something's clearly wrong."

Cat wiped her hands on her apron. "Alright. I've got it."

Greg gave her a grateful nod, then turned and headed back out.

Mycroft was still standing by the counter, tea in hand, gaze flicking between the door and the front window.

Greg motioned toward the back. "Let's go."

Neither of them said another word until they were behind the closed backroom door. Greg shut it gently, leaning back against it for a moment before looking at Mycroft fully.

"Okay," he said, tone low and steady. "Tell me everything."

"Your uncle wasn't just a beloved community fixture. He… he was also involved in a low-level, unofficial trade of information." Mycroft started.

Greg blinked. "Come again?"

"It started small," Mycroft continued, "and not with malicious intent. Arthur had an astonishing network. Scholars, expats, travellers, even a few retired agents. People who trusted him. People who exchanged stories, books, sometimes messages. It was always cloaked in literature. Code names, classic titles, delivery windows. It was clever."

Greg's voice was low. "So you're saying… he was smuggling intel?"

"In a manner of speaking," Mycroft admitted. "It wasn't illegal in the beginning. Just discreet. But over time, someone exploited the system. They started using Arthur's network to move more than information. Contacts. Assets. Potentially state-sensitive material."

Greg took a step back, reeling slightly. "And now that he's gone, someone's trying to pick up where he left off?"

"Yes," Mycroft said quietly. "Only they're being far less careful. And when I realised the café might be a point of vulnerability… I came in."

Greg let that sink in. "So what now?"

Mycroft hesitated, then stepped closer, his voice lower now, but somehow heavier. "We're laying a trap," he said. "Here. At Novel Grounds."

Greg turned to face him fully. "A trap."

Mycroft nodded. "Whoever's behind the leak… they're expecting continuity. They think Arthur's system is still in place. We're using that to our advantage. Carefully planted orders. Controlled information. All monitored. The café gives us a perfectly organic point of contact, unassuming, familiar. And you…"

Greg's brow furrowed. "I'm the bait."

"You're the constant," Mycroft corrected. "And before you ask, yes, I hate it. But we have no better access point. You know this place. The people. The rhythms. Your presence makes the lie believable."

Greg stared at him, breathing slow.

"And the list?" he asked eventually. "That private order list. How does that fit in?"

Mycroft glanced toward the door, then back at Greg. "Arthur disguised his exchange notes as customer requests. Most were real. Some weren't. You wouldn't have noticed anything unusual. they were embedded. Specific books, coded delivery times. But some of those fake names… weren't just random aliases."

"My name was on there. What was it code for?"

Mycroft nodded. "On a copy of A Clockwork Orange, sent to a location that… doesn't exist. A dead drop. We traced it back."

Greg's voice turned flat. "But why did he put my name in there?"

Mycroft's expression tightened at Greg's question. "We're still investigating the why," he said carefully. "But we have theories."

Greg folded his arms, his voice low and edged. "Try me."

Mycroft drew in a slow breath. "Arthur trusted you implicitly. Everyone knew that. You worked here. You were visible. Present. It would've been easy to associate you with his logistics, simple to assume your name would carry legitimacy in his network."

Greg's brow furrowed. "So someone used that trust to cover their own tracks?"

"Exactly," Mycroft said. "By using your name on a single transaction, they created plausible deniability. If anyone found it, they could frame it as a mistake. Or worse, point a finger in your direction, should it all fall apart."

Greg let that settle, the weight of it pressing hard against his chest.

Greg exhaled slowly, bracing both hands on the desk behind him. "Bloody hell, Arthur…"

"He was trying to help people," Mycroft said quietly. "At first. But the network changed. And I believe… before he died, he knew it."

Silence settled between them for a long beat.

Then Greg straightened. "So we lay your trap. We catch the bastard using my name. And then we end this."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "That's the idea."

Greg nodded once, jaw set. "Alright then. Let's do it."

Mycroft watched him for a moment. Longer than usual, like he was calculating something far more complex than strategy. Then he spoke again, softer this time. "I can't tell you everything, Gregory."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because the more you know," Mycroft said, stepping forward, "the more risk you're in. Right now, you're already a target because of association. But if I give you the full picture, you become a liability to them. And they won't hesitate to exploit that."

Greg's jaw clenched. "I don't like being kept in the dark."

"I know," Mycroft said, voice calm. "And I hate keeping you there. But I need you to trust me on this."

Greg stared at him, the heat of frustration bubbling just beneath his skin. But beneath that? He understood. He didn't like it, but he understood.

"I'm not fragile, Holmes," he said after a beat. "You don't have to protect me from everything."

"I'm not protecting you," Mycroft said, gaze steady. "I'm protecting us."

Greg blinked.

The weight of those words hung between them.

Then, slowly, Greg gave a short nod. "Alright. I trust you."

Mycroft's shoulders eased just a little.

"And when it's over," Greg added, stepping closer, voice low, "I expect the full bloody briefing. Charts. Files. Monologues. The works."

Mycroft chuckled slightly, "Deal."

And then, before Greg could fire back another snarky remark, Mycroft stepped forward and kissed him slowly, deliberate, and filled with something quiet and steady that lingered beneath the surface. A promise. A reassurance.

Greg leaned into it instinctively, one hand rising to curl at the edge of Mycroft's coat. The kiss didn't last long, but it didn't need to. It grounded them both. A moment of warmth in the middle of something far too uncertain.

When they pulled apart, Mycroft's brow rested gently against Greg's for the briefest second before he straightened, smoothing his coat like nothing had happened.

"We should return," he murmured, the usual composure slipping neatly back into place.

Greg rolled his eyes but smiled all the same. "Yeah, can't have Cat thinking we've eloped or something."

As they stepped into the hallway just outside the backroom, Mycroft paused, a hand brushing briefly against Greg's arm. Subtle, barely there, but enough to make Greg stop and glance at him.

Mycroft's tone was soft, serious. "One more thing."

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"I'd appreciate it," Mycroft said carefully, "if we could keep… us… discreet. At least for now."

Greg blinked. "You mean like… hide it?"

"I mean," Mycroft continued, eyes steady, "avoid making it obvious. Any visible attachment to me, especially now, could put you at further risk. And I will not allow that."

Greg's jaw ticked. "You think I can't handle being seen with you?"

"No," Mycroft said gently. "I think I couldn't handle it if something happened to you because of me."

Greg hesitated. Then nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. "Alright," he said. "We'll keep it quiet."

Mycroft gave a small, grateful nod and stepped ahead, posture perfectly composed once again.

Greg followed him out into the café, back into the noise and comfort of the day.

No one watching would've seen anything unusual. Just two men returning from a quiet conversation behind closed doors.

But between them, something had changed.

And even if it stayed invisible to the rest of the world, Greg felt it, burning steady and sure, right beneath the surface.

Later that evening, long after the bell above the shop door had stopped chiming and the lights were out for the night, Greg climbed the stairs to his flat with aching feet and a brain still buzzing with everything he and Mycroft had discussed.

He was just settling onto the sofa with a mug of tea when his phone buzzed.

{ Are you safe upstairs? – M }

Greg smiled at the screen.

{ Safe, fed, and horizontal. What more could a man want? xxx }

{ A quieter week. A less reckless uncle. Fewer criminal networks tangled around a bookshop – M }

{ Oi, careful. You'll make me miss the boring days xxx }

{ Boring was never your style. Not really – M }

Greg took a sip of his tea, grinning now.

{ So what's your style, then? Cold, calculated espionage and terrible tea? xxx }

{ Careful, Gregory. Mocking my tea might be considered grounds for treason – M }

{ You're just lucky I find the threat of treason weirdly charming xxx }

{ And you're lucky I find insubordination annoyingly endearing – M }

There was a pause. Then another buzz.

{ I'll see you tomorrow. 4pm – M }

Greg stared at that message for a long beat, then replied:

{ You always do xxx }

And somehow, that little ritual, their routine, felt like the one steady thing Greg could hold onto while the rest of the world turned upside down.

Greg set his phone aside on the coffee table, still smiling faintly to himself. The flat was quiet. Just the soft tick of the clock on the wall and the occasional creak from the old wood flooring beneath him.

He reached for the book he'd left on the arm of the sofa a few nights ago. One of Mycroft's recommendations - The Charioteer - and opened it to where he'd dog-eared the page.

His eyes moved across the lines slowly at first, but the story wrapped itself around him quickly, drawing him in. The language was sharp and elegant, but the emotions underneath were longing, restraint, connection and hit uncomfortably close to home.

Greg shifted slightly under the throw blanket, balancing the book on his knee. He found himself thinking about Mycroft with every paragraph. The subtlety of the characters' emotions. The distance they tried to keep. The vulnerability they refused to name.

Yeah, Greg thought. Too close to home.

Still, he read on, deeper into the quiet, letting the words carry him somewhere else for a little while. Somewhere honest. Complicated. Real.

After a couple more chapters, marked by underlined sentences, folded corners and a soft ache building behind his eyes, Greg finally closed the book and let it rest on his chest. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking about Laurie and Andrew, and how restraint had its own kind of gravity.

With a quiet sigh, he sat up, rubbed the back of his neck, and placed the novel carefully on the coffee table. He hadn't expected to get that pulled in. But Mycroft, of course, would recommend something that hit straight to the heart with surgical precision.

Greg picked up his phone and typed quickly, thumbs tapping out words before he could second-guess them.

{ Halfway through The Charioteer. You've got a mean streak, Holmes… }

He hesitated to press send. But then added:

{ It's beautiful. And devastating. I hate how much I get it xxx }

It was late, and he didn't expect a reply.

Still, he kept the phone nearby as he got ready for bed, brushing his teeth in the dim light of the bathroom, the lines of the story still echoing in his head.

By the time he slipped under the covers, he was already half asleep, the book's weight replaced by a different one in his chest.

Not heavy. Just… full.

Greg's phone buzzed softly on the nightstand just after 5:30 a.m., stirring him from the fog of sleep. He groaned, face still buried in the pillow, and reached out blindly to fumble for the screen.

One new message from Mycroft. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and opened it.

{ I take full responsibility for the emotional sabotage – M }

Greg snorted into his pillow, already smiling.

Another message followed, seconds later.

{ But if you truly understood The Charioteer, then perhaps now you understand me a little better, too – M }

{ For the record… I never wanted restraint to be our story – M }

Greg lay there for a long moment, the warmth of the words settling somewhere deep and quiet inside him.

He typed slowly, thumb pausing over each word.

{ I get it now. Every page of it xxx }

{ No more restraint, yeah? Not if we can help it xxx }

The reply didn't come right away. But Greg didn't need it to, not yet. Because he already knew. At 4 p.m., Mycroft would walk through the door and everything unsaid would be written clearly in the way he looked at Greg.

And that was exactly what happened.

At 4 p.m., Mycroft walked through the door and everything unsaid was written clearly in the way he looked at Greg. Quiet intensity in his eyes, the usual brisk confidence softened by something almost solemn.

Greg felt it before a single word was spoken. He felt it in the way Mycroft's gaze lingered on him for just a second longer than usual, in the way he didn't quite straighten his coat as meticulously as he normally did.

They didn't speak at first. Mycroft gave his usual nod, ordered his usual tea with the same precise phrasing, and left the usual generous tip. He took his seat in the corner, pulled out a sleek black notebook instead of his laptop, and opened it without comment.

Greg tried to pretend he wasn't watching him more than usual as he worked, wiping down the counter and preparing a few drinks. He brought over the tea when it was ready, setting it down with a quiet, "Here you go."

"Thank you," Mycroft said, eyes meeting his. The words were standard, but his tone was weighted.

Later, when the early rush had passed and the café quieted into the familiar lull between waves of customers, Greg came to clear his table only to find Mycroft already closing his notebook, gaze unreadable.

"I'll be away," Mycroft said simply, as Greg gathered the empty plate and half-drunk cup. "Likely a week. Hopefully not more."

Greg froze, plate in hand. "Away?"

Mycroft nodded once. "Work."

"What kind of work?" Greg asked, his voice kept low, careful. "Something to do with… you know what?"

There was a pause. Mycroft's fingers tapped once against the table's edge before folding neatly in his lap. "I can't say," he replied. "And contact may be… difficult."

Greg's mouth went dry. "You mean I won't hear from you at all?"

Mycroft looked up at him, gaze steady. "That's a possibility."

Greg swallowed hard, the clatter of the café around them suddenly feeling very far away. "Right."

Mycroft's expression shifted, just slightly. Enough that Greg saw it. The flicker of something gentler beneath the steel.

"I wouldn't tell you this unless I thought it mattered," Mycroft said softly. "Unless you mattered."

Greg looked down at the mug in his hand, then back up at him. "Be careful, yeah?"

"I always am," Mycroft replied.

Greg managed a faint smile. "That's a lie."

Mycroft gave a small, knowing smile of his own. "Only when necessary."

And with that, he rose, adjusted his coat, and slipped his notebook back into his briefcase.

Greg walked him to the door, not touching, not lingering, but their eyes held as Mycroft stepped out into the cold evening air.

Just before the door swung closed, Greg's voice caught him - soft, low, meant only for him. "…When you get back," he said, eyes flicking up to meet Mycroft's, "can we go on a real date?"

Mycroft paused. His fingers tightened just slightly around the handle of his briefcase. For a moment, all the composure he wore like armour flickered at the edges.

He nodded once. "I'd like that," he said, voice equally quiet. "Very much."

And then, with a final glance, he stepped out into the night, the door closing gently behind him.

Greg stood still for a beat longer, heart thudding with a quiet, unexpected hope.

A real date.

Whenever Mycroft came back… they would be waiting.

And Greg stood there for a long moment after the door clicked shut, the quiet settling in.

A week. Maybe more.

He already missed him.

As the days passed without a word, Greg fell into a rhythm that felt both too familiar and unbearably hollow.

He still opened the shop each morning, set the pastries out just the way Cat liked them, put on the same playlist, and flipped the sign to 'We're Open'. But the moment the clock ticked over to 4:00 p.m., his eyes would lift - every single time - toward the front door.

And every single time, no one came through it.

Still, he sent texts. Every day.

February 3rd

{ Got that new poetry anthology you mentioned. It's a bit heavier than my usual taste, but I think I get why you like it. The syntax is dramatic. Very you xxx }

February 4th

{ Woke up thinking I saw you in the kitchen. Turns out it was just the coat I forgot to hang. Miss you xxx }

February 5th

{ Cat says I'm more distracted than usual and keeps feeding me extra muffins. I think she's trying to fatten me up to cope with emotional starvation xxx }

February 6th

{ Still keeping your seat warm. Got a new queer romance in that you'd pretend to roll your eyes at but read cover to cover anyway xxx }

February 7th

{ Today was rough. Not because anything went wrong, just because you weren't here to tell me what I'd missed cleaning behind the counter. Or to argue about tea. Or to watch me play xxx }

February 8th

{ I know you said you might not reply. I just… needed to say something. Even if it's into the void xxx }

Every time he hit send, he told himself not to expect anything. That Mycroft had warned him. That silence was a necessary part of whatever operation he was entangled in.

But it didn't make it easier.

Not when he lay awake at night, phone on the pillow beside him, screen dark and cold.

Not when he saw Mycroft's seat empty, undisturbed and had to look away before the ache in his chest pulled too tightly.

Greg kept the routine going. Kept the shop running. Kept pretending everything was fine. But inside, he was just counting days. Counting messages. Counting moments.

And hoping that soon, one of them might end with Mycroft walking through the door again.

The bell above the door jingled, its cheerful chime breaking the quiet rhythm of a slow mid-afternoon. Greg looked up from behind the counter, expecting one of the regulars - or hoping, just for a flicker of a heartbeat, that it might be him.

But it wasn't Mycroft. It was Matt.

Wrapped in a scarf that clashed horribly with his coat and wearing that same lopsided grin that Greg had seen since university, he stepped into the warmth of the café like he owned the place.

"You look like someone who needs a very strong coffee," Matt announced, strolling toward the counter.

Greg raised a brow. "I own the place. I can make myself one whenever I want."

"And yet," Matt said, leaning against the counter, "you haven't."

Greg stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "How do you always know?"

Matt gave him a look. "Because I've seen that 'sad-puppy-waiting-by-the-door' face before. Uni. When that girl from third-year ghosted you for an entire month after promising a weekend in Paris."

Greg winced. "Low blow."

Matt shrugged. "Effective."

Greg turned to prep another pot of coffee, his back to Matt. "It's not the same."

"No?" Matt asked, voice softening. "Because from where I'm standing, you've been texting someone who hasn't replied in a week, working yourself to distraction, and looking like you haven't slept properly in days."

Greg didn't answer.

Matt let the silence linger, then said, "You don't have to tell me what's going on. Just… don't shut down on me, yeah?"

Greg placed a mug in front of him without a word, then finally looked up.

"I'm fine," he said. It wasn't a lie. Not really. "I just… I don't like not knowing if he's okay."

Matt nodded slowly, taking a sip. "You're not the kind of bloke who gives his heart away easily, Greg."

Greg huffed a soft laugh. "Did I? Give it away?"

Matt raised his brows. "You're the one counting the days."

Greg went quiet again, "Yeah. I guess I am."

The bell chimed again in the background, and Greg's head snapped toward the door, his heart jumping before he could stop it. But it was just the post.

Matt noticed. Of course he did. He didn't say anything, though. He just took another sip of coffee and reached for a muffin. "Alright. I'm staying till close. You need someone to keep you from spiralling."

Greg didn't argue.

Because deep down, he knew Matt was right.

After Greg flipped the sign to 'Closed' and finished wiping down the last table, Matt wasted no time. "Jacket. Now. You're coming with me."

Greg gave him a flat look. "What are you Cat?"

"Worse probably," Matt said cheerfully. "I have no parental responsibility and absolutely no shame."

Before Greg could protest further, Matt grabbed his coat off the hook and tossed it at him.

Five minutes later, they were walking down the damp cobbled street toward the pub on the corner. The sign out front glowed warmly in the winter dark, promising warmth, greasy food, and more beer than anyone probably needed on a weeknight.

Inside, the place was buzzing. Low chatter, clinking glasses, the smell of fried chips and spiced curry in the air. Familiar. Grounding.

They found a booth near the back and settled in. Matt waved over the bartender with the confidence of someone who'd done this many times before. "Two pints," Matt said. "And we'll take the burger special and some onion rings. Extra greasy."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You trying to kill me?"

"Please," Matt said, grinning. "You'll feel alive after this."

Greg leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, watching the room. "You dragged me out to eat carbs and watch you flirt with the bartender again, didn't you?"

Matt placed a dramatic hand on his chest. "Would I be so shallow?"

"Yes," Greg deadpanned.

Their beers arrived, and the first sip hit Greg's stomach like a warm brick. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been all day, but the moment he let out a slow breath, some of it started to ease.

Matt eyed him over the rim of his pint. "Still thinking about him?"

Greg didn't bother lying. "Yeah."

Matt nodded, setting his glass down. "You know, it's okay to miss someone and still be angry at them. Or frustrated. Or whatever it is you're feeling."

Greg gave a small laugh. "I think it's everything."

"Then drink," Matt said, raising his glass again. "And eat. And maybe let yourself not think about him for one bloody hour."

Greg clinked his glass against Matt's.

"Thanks, mate."

"Anytime," Matt said with a grin. "That's what reckless friends with bad advice are for."

And for the first time in days, Greg actually laughed. Not the small, polite sort. A real one. The kind that tugged at his chest and made him feel, even just for a moment, like himself again.

Even if Mycroft's absence still sat heavy in the back of his mind, he wasn't alone. Not really.

They chatted, ate, and drank - slowly at first, the conversation circling around the usual things: shop gossip, old university stories, mutual acquaintances whose lives had become either wildly impressive or depressingly predictable.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Greg actually relaxed.

The burger was greasy in the perfect way, the onion rings were piping hot, and Matt was in peak form. Dramatically reenacting the time he got stuck in a revolving door during a work conference in Leeds and somehow managed to flirt his way out of it.

Greg nearly choked on his beer from laughing. "You're a menace."

"A charming one," Matt said proudly, wiping his fingers on a napkin. "Admit it. You needed this."

Greg leaned back in the booth, sipping what was left of his pint. "I really did."

Matt gave him a satisfied look, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To temporary distractions."

Greg clinked his against it. "And reckless friends."

"For the record," Matt added, grinning, "I'm still proud of you."

Greg tilted his head. "For what?"

"For letting someone matter to you again."

Greg didn't reply right away. He just sat there, watching the condensation on his glass, letting Matt's words settle.

They mattered more than he could say.

Eventually, he looked up with a small, grateful smile. "You're still a pain in the arse."

"And you're still the softest hard bloke I've ever met," Matt shot back.

They ordered another round, and for a couple of hours, the pub wrapped around them like a warm, slightly chaotic blanket. Laughter buzzed in the background. The clatter of plates, the buzz of conversation, it all drowned out the heaviness Greg had been carrying.

For those few hours, Mycroft Holmes didn't occupy every corner of his mind.

And that, Greg had to admit, was a bit of a miracle.

By the time he got home, it was past midnight. The streets of Covent Garden had quieted to a gentle hush. Just the distant hum of traffic and the soft rustle of wind through the alleyways. He made his way up the narrow staircase above Novel Grounds, kicked off his boots, and tugged off his jumper as he moved through the flat.

The warmth of the pub lingered in his limbs. A good kind of tired. A belly full of fried food. The pleasant fuzz of just enough alcohol to take the edge off.

He brushed his teeth in the dark, moving on autopilot, and collapsed into bed with a groan of relief. Head hitting the pillow, body already halfway to sleep.

And then his phone buzzed.

Greg blinked, confused, and fumbled for it on the nightstand.

Mycroft.

His pulse spiked. He sat up a little straighter, swiping the screen with a thumb that felt suddenly too clumsy.

{ I know I said contact might be impossible. I didn't expect it to be this hard – M }

Greg stared at the words, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

{ I can't say much. But I'm alright. Thinking of you. Often – M }

Greg's chest clenched, relief, sharp and deep and immediate. He quickly typed back:

{ You have no idea how good it is to hear from you. I've missed you like hell xxx }

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

{ I miss you too. I'll explain everything when I'm back. I promise – M }

Greg leaned back against the headboard, phone pressed to his chest for a moment as if it could somehow make the distance smaller.

He didn't need details tonight. He just needed this. A sign that Mycroft was out there. That he cared.

Greg smiled into the quiet.

And for the first time in a week, he fell asleep with something like peace curled gently around his heart.

Chapter Text

That was the last thing Greg heard from Mycroft for another four days.

At first, he didn't panic.

He told himself it was fine - normal. That if Mycroft had taken the risk of texting once, he'd do it again when he could. That the silence was part of the job, and Greg had already come to terms with what being with a man like Mycroft Holmes might entail.

But by day two, that confidence had begun to fray.

By day three, he was refreshing his texts every hour, convincing himself he wasn't.

And then, late on the fourth evening, just as Greg was starting to close up, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

{ I've returned. But I won't be able to see you for a few more days. Please trust me – M }

Greg read the message three times, the words cold and stiff on the screen. Not 'I miss you', not 'I want to see you', just a request for trust. A vague reassurance. A polite barricade.

He stared at it for a long time before finally typing a reply.

{ Are you okay? Really? Because that doesn't sound like you're okay xxx }

No answer.

Greg paced behind the counter for about 15 minutes before Cat finally told him to sit down before he wore a hole in the floor.

She crossed her arms, a flour-dusted tea towel still tucked into her apron, and narrowed her eyes at him like only Cat Lestrade could. "Alright, out with it."

Greg blinked at her, trying for innocence. "Out with what?"

"Oh, don't give me that." She gestured to the floor. "You've walked the equivalent of a half-marathon behind that counter. If you're trying to dig a tunnel to wherever Mycroft's holed up, I doubt it's going to work."

Greg sighed and dropped onto the stool behind the register, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "It's just… he said he's back, but I can't see him for a few days. I asked if he's alright and all that and he hasn't replied since..."

Cat gave him a long, measured look, "You're worried."

"Of course I'm worried," Greg muttered. "He looked tired the last time I saw him. And distant. And now, nothing."

She crossed her arms, "So go."

Greg blinked. "What?"

"Go to his place," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Tonight. If you're that twisted up about whether he's eating, breathing, sleeping… then go see for yourself."

"I can't just show up-"

"Why not?" she interrupted. "You two share more longing stares and emotionally repressed silences than a bloody Victorian novel. If anyone's earned the right to check in, it's you."

Greg opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. Because, as usual, she wasn't wrong.

"Besides," she added, softening just slightly, "I know that look. You're not going to sleep a wink if you don't at least try."

Greg looked down and then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Alright."

Cat smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "Go be the reckless, romantic idiot I raised."

Greg laughed under his breath. "You didn't raise me."

"No, but someone had to teach you how to care." She went back to the kitchen, leaving Greg with a fast-beating heart, and a decision already made.

Greg stood there for maybe five seconds before he grabbed his coat from the hook behind the counter.

The sign flipped to Closed half an hour early. The door locked behind him with a click that felt more like commitment than routine.

He'd never closed the shop faster.

His legs carried him on instinct through the streets of Covent Garden, the sky a heavy, muted grey above. He dodged puddles, tourists, late-afternoon shoppers. None of it mattered. Not when every step closer to Mycroft's flat steadied something shaky in his chest.

Because he'd had enough of silence. Enough of cryptic texts and waiting. He needed to see him. To know he was alright.

By the time he buzzed in at Mycroft's building, his heart was pounding, but it wasn't nerves. It was anticipation. The door clicked open without hesitation.

All he could think about was that final stretch of hallway, the door to 3C, and what the hell he'd say when it opened. He didn't need to knock, because when he reached the end of the hallway, the door opened before he could raise a hand.

Mycroft stood there. Pale. Tired and - injured.

He was still in a waistcoat, but it hung slightly askew. One sleeve carefully rolled above a fresh bandage wrapped tight around his wrist. There was a small cut on his bottom lip, barely healed, and just beneath the open collar of his shirt, Greg caught the edge of another bandage taped to his chest.

His breath caught, "Mycroft…"

Neither of them spoke right away.

Mycroft just stared at him, like Greg had stepped out of a dream he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.

Then softly, like it hurt to admit it, he whispered, "…You're here."

Greg stepped forward, slow but steady, all the tension of the past days rising in his chest. "Yeah... I am."

He didn't ask what happened - not yet.

Because right now, all that mattered was the way Mycroft's shoulders finally sagged, just the slightest bit, like Greg's presence made it safe to exhale.

Greg didn't say another word. He just stepped forward and pulled Mycroft into a hug - carefully, gently, like he was afraid to break something.

He felt Mycroft tense at first, ever the man of composure, always holding himself just a little too tightly. But then, slowly, Mycroft leaned in. Not all at once. Just enough.

Enough to rest his forehead lightly against Greg's shoulder. Enough to let his fingers brush against the back of Greg's coat, as if grounding himself there.

Greg's arms circled him, firm but mindful of the bandages. "You should've told me," He said quietly, voice rough with something far too big to name.

"I couldn't," Mycroft murmured. "Not safely."

Greg closed his eyes for a moment. "You're hurt," Greg said, barely more than a breath.

"I'm alright now," Mycroft replied, and Greg could hear the truth straining beneath the words.

They stood there in the threshold of the flat, wrapped in quiet and each other, the world outside momentarily irrelevant.

Mycroft stepped back to let Greg in first, his movements precise but slower than usual - measured, like he was guarding against some invisible pull on his injuries.

Greg toed off his boots by the door, hung his coat up on the familiar hook in the entryway, and followed Mycroft down the hall toward the living room. The flat was quiet, dimly lit by the warm spill of a single floor lamp. Everything looked the same as it had last time Greg was here, except now, the space felt heavier. Like it was holding onto something unspoken.

Mycroft eased himself down onto the edge of the sofa, not with the elegant grace he usually carried, but with the weary caution of someone used to hiding pain.

Greg didn't sit right away.

He hovered for a moment, watching Mycroft's every movement. The stiffness in his shoulders, the subtle wince he tried to mask as he adjusted his position. Then Greg stepped closer and sank down next to him, leaving just enough space so Mycroft didn't feel crowded.

"You don't have to talk," Greg said gently. "Not yet."

Mycroft's gaze flicked toward him, guarded, grateful. "Thank you," he murmured, voice soft but steady.

Greg leaned back into the cushions, resting his arm lightly along the back of the sofa behind Mycroft. "But you are going to let me take care of you."

Mycroft gave the faintest smile, almost wry. "And what does that entail?"

Greg shrugged, his tone warm and teasing. "Tea. Blankets. Probably nagging. Possibly bad telly."

Mycroft exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh, and let his head tilt back slightly against the cushion.

"That," he said, closing his eyes for just a moment, "doesn't sound entirely dreadful."

Greg watched him for a few more seconds - watched the tension still tugging at the corners of Mycroft's mouth, the way his fingers rested on his thigh like he didn't quite know what to do with them.

Then, gently, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft's temple. It wasn't demanding or heavy, it was grounding. Reassurance in the quiet language they'd built together.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut at the contact, but he didn't move away.

Greg lingered for a heartbeat, then pulled back and stood. "Have you eaten yet?" he asked, already glancing toward the kitchen.

Mycroft hesitated, then offered a dry, unimpressed look that didn't quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. "Does three cups of coffee and half a granola bar count?"

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Not even slightly."

"Well then," Mycroft murmured, folding his hands neatly in his lap, "I suppose I haven't."

Greg huffed, hands on his hips. "You're bloody useless at this whole recovery thing, aren't you?"

Mycroft arched a brow. "That depends. Are you offering to fix it?"

Greg was already moving toward the kitchen. "Get comfortable, Holmes. You're about to experience the full Lestrade treatment."

From the sofa, Greg heard the faintest chuckle. And just like that, the flat felt a little less heavy.

Greg made his way into the kitchen and flicked on the light, pausing for a moment to scan the shelves and fridge.

To his surprise, it looked recently stocked. Nothing fancy - simple staples, fresh produce, a few ready-made things, and enough dry goods to make something decent. At least someone at Mycroft's office must care for him.

Greg rolled up his sleeves.

A quick check through the cupboards confirmed he had what he needed. Onions, garlic, lentils, a few spices, coconut milk, a packet of chickpeas. It wasn't restaurant fare, but it was hearty, warm, and wouldn't be hard on someone healing.

While the rice steamed on the stove and the curry simmered low, Greg brewed a cup of tea, just the way Mycroft liked it.

He returned to the living room, tea in hand, to find Mycroft still resting on the sofa. He hadn't moved much, his head tilted slightly, eyes half-lidded, as if the quiet alone was enough to settle him for the first time in days.

Greg approached and held the mug out to him. "Figured I'd better start with tea before I start making you eat actual food like a proper human."

Mycroft's lips curved into a faint, amused smile as he accepted the cup. "You're terribly demanding."

Greg gave a lopsided grin. "And yet, I've been told it's one of my more charming traits."

Mycroft took a sip, then looked at him over the rim. "It's good."

"Of course it is." Greg winked. "Now sit there and look pretty. I'll let you know when dinner's ready."

As he turned to head back to the kitchen, Greg caught the small shake of Mycroft's head - equal parts affection and disbelief.

And for a man who rarely let his guard down, the way Mycroft let himself sink deeper into the sofa, tea in hand and tension finally softening around his shoulders… that was all Greg needed.

Greg plated up the curry and rice, steam curling from the bowls in fragrant spirals that filled the kitchen with warmth and spice. He gave the sauce one last stir before spooning generous helpings into shallow dishes and grabbing a couple of forks.

Then he popped his head into the living room, balancing both plates.

"Alright, dinner is served," he said, voice light. "Do you want to eat here, or be civilized and use your kitchen table?"

Mycroft looked up from his tea, the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Given that I'm already half-horizontal and your food smells far too good to risk cooling during a relocation effort…" he gestured toward the sofa, "I vote we remain uncivilized."

Greg snorted. "Couch it is, then."

He set the plates down on the coffee table and returned for napkins and drinks before settling beside Mycroft, careful not to jostle him. He handed him a plate and a fork and nudged a cushion behind his back for support.

"Thanks," Mycroft murmured, glancing at the meal. "This looks…", he smirked. "Surprisingly edible."

"Watch it, Holmes. I know where the bandages are."

That earned him a soft chuckle, and they both dug in - quiet, warm, and just a little closer than before.

Watching Mycroft eat made Greg feel a strange kind of way.

He didn't say anything. Just kept his eyes on his own plate, tried not to linger on the thoughts creeping in. Because yeah, it made him happy to see Mycroft eat. To know he was here, safe - if not quite whole, then on the way to it.

But it also hurt a little. To realise how little care Mycroft must've been giving himself these past days. How many meals he'd skipped. How many nights he probably hadn't slept properly. And Mycroft wasn't one to admit to those things out loud.

The way he was eating now said more than words ever could.

"You know," Greg said after a moment, trying to keep it light, "if I'd known all it took was a homemade curry to break through the fortress of Holmes, I would've started cooking for you months ago."

Mycroft paused just long enough to give him a droll look, half a smile forming behind it. "I didn't realise food could be… this satisfying."

Greg chuckled, but it was quiet. "Yeah. Well. You needed it."

They both finished off their plates in silence, not awkward, but easy. Companionable.

And when Greg stood to go grab the pan from the kitchen, Mycroft didn't even hesitate. "I'll take another portion too."

Greg blinked at him. "You sure? I don't want to-"

"Yes," Mycroft said, simply. "Please."

Greg dished up another serving for each of them, and this time when he sat back down, he passed Mycroft the bowl with a grin he didn't bother to hide.

They didn't rush.

With the plates forgotten and the soft hum of the city outside Mycroft's windows, they curled into one another on the sofa, the kind of quiet that didn't ask for anything but presence settling between them.

Greg's arm draped over Mycroft's waist carefully, mindful of the injury beneath the bandage. Mycroft's head rested lightly against Greg's shoulder, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of Greg's jumper, like he needed the reassurance of constant contact.

The silence held, long and warm and close.

And then, after a few minutes, Mycroft spoke softly, like he wasn't entirely sure he should.

"I was in Prague."

Greg blinked. "Prague?"

Mycroft gave a faint nod, his gaze distant. "A contact went dark. Someone embedded deep in the internal chain. I couldn't risk sending anyone else. Not after what happened with the files. So I went myself."

Greg frowned. "And no one thought to mention that an executive Officer of the Civil Service was flying off into danger?"

Mycroft allowed the smallest smile. "You'd be surprised how easy it is to disappear when everyone assumes you're working late in your office."

Greg scoffed but didn't interrupt again.

"I made contact. But it was a trap. Someone… someone was waiting. It wasn't just about watching anymore, they wanted to send a message."

Greg's jaw clenched. "That how you got-?"

"The cut on my lip was the least of it," Mycroft said, eyes flicking down toward his bandaged arm. "They were careful. Deliberate. Enough damage to warn me. Not enough to take me out permanently."

Greg stared at him. "Christ, Mycroft…"

"I got out," Mycroft continued, voice thinner now. "But not cleanly. Had to go off-grid for a few days. Keep the trail muddy. It wasn't just about the case anymore, it was about survival."

Greg reached over, gently brushing his fingers along Mycroft's knee. "You could've told me something. Anything."

"I couldn't risk it," Mycroft said, finally turning toward him. "You were already in the crosshairs the moment they used your name. I didn't want to give them another reason."

Greg exhaled, sharp and shaky. "You think not knowing helped? I thought something had happened to you… I knew something had happened to you."

"I know," Mycroft whispered.

And Greg could see it now, the edges of exhaustion, the faint tremble in his hand, the honesty in the cracks of his voice. For all Mycroft's strength and strategy, he was still human. Still hurting. Still here.

"You're back now," Greg said softly. "And next time, you're not going alone."

Mycroft didn't reply right away. But he shifted closer, let his fingers brush against Greg's again - an anchor in the quiet.

Greg let the silence settle for a moment, the weight of it thick with unspoken things.

Then, with a glance toward the bandage on Mycroft's arm and the fading bruise along his jaw, he asked gently, "Did anyone actually look at you? Or did you just slap some antiseptic on and carry on like usual?"

Mycroft's lips twitched - an attempt at a smirk, but it didn't quite land. "The medical kit in the safehouse was adequately stocked."

Greg gave him a look, "Adequate doesn't mean enough, you stubborn bastard."

"I was alone," Mycroft replied simply. "I did what I could."

Greg's stomach turned at the thought of him, this man who seemed to hold empires in balance, silently tending to his own wounds in some anonymous flat in a foreign city. Alone.

Greg's voice softened. "You should've let someone help."

For a second, Mycroft looked like he might argue. But then he just sighed, the fight leaving him. "I'm letting you now," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

That quiet admission hit Greg square in the chest.

So he reached out - slow, steady - and gently took Mycroft's injured arm, cradling it in his hands. "Then let me check this properly. And maybe after, we can work on the whole not bleeding alone in another country thing."

Mycroft gave a tired chuckle. "That sounds… acceptable."

Greg rolled his eyes affectionately and stood. "Good. Because you're not going anywhere near another field op without a damn medic and me yelling at you the whole way."

As he disappeared into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit, he could already hear Mycroft muttering under his breath, "Heaven help me."

But when Greg returned, Mycroft was still sitting there, arm outstretched, waiting. Willing.

Greg set the first aid kit down on the coffee table and gave Mycroft a quiet look, one that spoke more than the usual teasing ever could.

"Alright," he said gently, crouching beside him, "let's see what we're working with."

Mycroft gave a resigned sigh and began to unbutton his waistcoat with stiff, practiced fingers. Greg watched the effort with a frown and stepped in, brushing Mycroft's hands aside to take over.

"Let me," he murmured.

The waistcoat came off slowly, carefully. Then the shirt, bloodstained near the upper sleeve, the fabric wrinkled and clinging faintly where it had stuck to healing skin.

Mycroft didn't flinch, but Greg saw the tension in his jaw, the way he held himself too still.

Greg peeled the sleeve back, revealing the bandage wrapped tight around the upper arm. Dried blood had seeped through near the centre. He reached for the scissors, silent as he cut the fabric free and slowly unwound the layers.

What lay beneath made his chest tighten.

A long, deep gash, healing but angry and red, lined with bruising and what looked like poorly done stitches - likely self-administered, just like Greg had feared.

"Jesus, Mycroft…" Greg whispered, his brow furrowing. "This is bad."

"It's healing," Mycroft replied, eyes focused somewhere beyond the room.

Greg didn't argue. He just cleaned it properly - gently, thoroughly - then applied a fresh layer of antiseptic, his hands as steady as they could be.

The whole time, Mycroft didn't say a word. He simply watched Greg, his gaze softer now, but heavy.

When Greg finally secured the clean bandage, he sat back on his heels, exhaling. "There. That's more like it."

Mycroft gave a single nod, then said quietly, "Thank you."

Greg gaze swept lower to Mycroft's right wrist, resting stiffly in his lap, unmoving, guarded. He gently reached for it.

Mycroft tensed, but let him.

Greg's fingers ran carefully along the bandage, "Is it sprained? Or worse?"

"Hairline fracture," Mycroft murmured. "Nothing serious. It's braced underneath."

Greg bit back the curse that came to his lips and sighed. "And your collarbone? You've been holding yourself stiff all night."

Mycroft's eyes flickered down, as if finally registering the tension there. "Bruised. Possibly cracked. I took a fall. Awkward landing."

Greg let his hand linger just above his shoulder, not quite touching. "Bloody hell, Mycroft. You should be in a hospital."

"I had… other priorities," he said evenly. "And I've been checked. Not thoroughly, perhaps, but enough to confirm I'm not dying."

Greg met his eyes, jaw set hard. "Not good enough, Mycroft. You need to go to a hospital. This-" he gestured to the bruises, the fracture, the bandaged gash, "-this isn't something you can just walk off."

Mycroft didn't respond right away. His gaze drifted, expression unreadable, but heavy with something unspoken. Quietly he said, "I can't."

Greg blinked. "What do you mean, can't? You're half held together with willpower and painkillers-"

"If I check in officially, it triggers a chain," Mycroft interrupted, voice low and tight. "Reports. Documentation. Oversight from people who have… more authority than I do in certain matters."

Greg stared at him, stunned. "So what? You're afraid they'll bench you? Strip your clearance?"

Mycroft's silence was the only answer he needed.

Greg swore under his breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Mycroft. You're risking your health, your life, because you think they'll cut you loose if they see you banged up?"

Mycroft's voice was quieter now. "If they knew the full scope of what happened, how close it came to being a complete failure, they might."

Greg looked at him for a long moment, heart twisting with a strange mix of anger and concern.

"Then you let me help you," he said firmly. "Because this, hiding injuries, bleeding into your own damn shirts, this isn't strength. It's survival. And you don't have to do that alone."

There was a flicker in Mycroft's eyes - guilt, maybe. Or something even closer to gratitude.

"I know," he said softly.

Greg exhaled hard, but the tension in his shoulders eased just slightly. He stood and held out his hand. "For both our sakes," he said again, more gently now.

Mycroft took it. And let himself be pulled up into the quiet safety Greg offered.

Greg kept hold of Mycroft's hand as he guided him down the hall, flicking the light on in the bathroom with his free one.

The room filled with soft, amber light, bouncing off tile and mirror. Mycroft stepped inside carefully, stiff in places, wincing only slightly as he moved. Greg didn't miss it.

He grabbed a clean flannel from the shelf and ran it under warm water, wringing it out before turning back. "Sit," he said gently, nodding toward the edge of the tub.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, just a little, but complied. Perching himself with practiced poise, even as fatigue edged every line of his posture.

Greg knelt in front of him, brushing the warm cloth lightly along his face, wiping away some of the dried blood on his lip. He didn't rush. Every movement was steady, deliberate.

"You're a terrible patient," Greg muttered, but there was no real heat in it.

"I prefer the term 'independent'," Mycroft replied, voice quieter now, eyes fluttering shut as Greg dabbed at the cut on his lip.

"Mm-hmm." Greg rinsed the flannel and started on his jaw, working his way gently downward. "Well, lucky for you, I'm annoyingly persistent."

"That," Mycroft murmured, "is one of your most insufferable qualities."

Greg smirked. "And yet, here you are."

They shared a brief, knowing look before Greg finished the last of the cleanup and offered a soft towel. Mycroft took it with a murmured "Thank you," then leaned back slightly with a quiet sigh.

"Come on," Greg said, tapping his knee. "Let's get you horizontal. And not in the interesting way."

That earned a faint chuckle, and Greg smiled at the sound of it.

He helped Mycroft to his feet again, supporting him with a gentle arm around his back as they headed for the bedroom - slow, quiet steps in the hush of the flat. A strange kind of peace settled between them. Heavy with everything unsaid, but somehow warm.

When they finally reached the bed, Greg moved with care, adjusting the pillows and gently guiding Mycroft to sit. "Here, lean back," he said softly, fluffing one of the pillows and tucking it behind Mycroft's back. "You need to be comfortable."

Mycroft gave him a dry look. "I'm not made of glass, Gregory."

"No," Greg murmured, helping him ease down, "but you're still bruised and stitched together, so humour me."

With a sigh of reluctant agreement, Mycroft settled in, shoulders against the pillows. Greg slid in beside him, wrapping one arm securely around Mycroft's waist and letting the other rest gently over his chest - fingers splayed protectively.

Mycroft didn't resist. If anything, he leaned into the warmth.

Greg tucked the covers over both of them and rested his chin lightly against the top of Mycroft's head. "Better?"

A quiet hum of assent was all he got in return, but it was enough.

And in the stillness of the dark, with Mycroft breathing evenly against him and Greg holding him close, the weight of the world slipped away, if only for a while.

The alarm Greg set on his phone buzzed on the nightstand, ripping him out of his peaceful sleep. Greg blinked up at the ceiling for a moment, reluctant to move from the warm cocoon of sheets and Mycroft's quiet, steady breathing beside him.

But duty called and the shop wouldn't open itself.

He eased out of bed slowly, careful not to disturb Mycroft, who was still sleeping soundly, mouth slightly parted, hair a rumpled halo on the pillow. For all his usual composure, the man looked soft like this, unguarded in a way that made Greg's chest ache just a little.

Greg dressed quickly and quietly, then padded barefoot into the kitchen. He set about making a simple breakfast: buttered toast, soft scrambled eggs, a bit of fruit on the side. He poured a glass of fresh orange juice and filled a glass of water, setting them on a tray along with two painkillers.

He added a folded note, scribbled in his usual slanted handwriting:

{ Morning, posh boy. Didn't want to wake you - shop duty calls. Eat this, take the meds and rest. I'll swing by around lunch xxx }

He placed the tray on the bedside table with care, letting his gaze linger on Mycroft for a beat longer before he slipped out of the flat - quiet as a shadow, heart strangely full.

As soon as Greg stepped through the front door of Novel Grounds, the familiar bell overhead chiming his arrival, Cat's head snapped up from behind the counter.

"There you are!" she said, eyes narrowing. "You're late. And don't think I didn't notice you didn't go home last night."

Greg didn't even get the chance to hang up his coat before she continued.

"So? Is he alright? Are you alright? Why didn't you answer my message last night? And what in the name of coffee beans happened between the two of you?"

Greg held up his hands in surrender, barely hiding a grin. "Alright, alright, slow down! I didn't answer because my phone died, and yes we're fine. He's fine… sort of" He moved behind the counter, flicking on the first of the machines.

Cat's expression didn't soften. "Sort of fine? That's all I get? Spill Lestrade."

Greg sighed, tugging on an apron. "He's banged up. Worse than he let on, of course. But I got him patched up and made him eat. He's sleeping it off now."

Cat's frown deepened, but the worry in her eyes softened. "Poor thing. And you?"

Greg blinked. "Me?"

She stepped closer, dropping her voice. "Yes, you. You look like someone got into your chest and messed up the wiring. You okay?"

Greg exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly? I don't know. But I'm better than I was. Being with him, seeing he's still here, that helps."

Cat reached out and gave his arm a firm squeeze. "Well, he's lucky to have you. Now go flip the sign. I'll get the first batch of muffins out before the rush hits."

Greg nodded, grateful beyond words, and moved to the front door, feeling just for a moment, like maybe things were settling back into place. Or at least heading somewhere close.

As the lunch hour lull began to settle over Novel Grounds, Greg glanced at the clock above the espresso machine for what had to be the tenth time in five minutes.

Cat caught the motion and narrowed her eyes at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "Alright, out with it."

Greg wiped his hands on a towel, trying to sound casual. "Think you could hold the fort for an hour or two? I just want to check on Mycroft. See how he's doing."

Cat didn't even blink. "Of course. Honestly, I expected you to ask sooner. I've got it covered."

Greg gave her a grateful smile. "You're a star."

She wagged a finger at him. "You better bring me back something sweet if you stop at that fancy bakery on the way."

Greg laughed as he grabbed his coat. "Not a bakery in London is selling better things than you bake Auntie."

Cat rolled her eyes, shooing him toward the door. "Go. Before you wear a path in the floor with all that pacing."

Greg was already halfway out, heart picking up speed, not from nerves, but anticipation. A strange, quiet need to see for himself that Mycroft was still alright. Still home. Still his.

Greg had barely stepped out of the lift when he spotted her, leaning against the doorframe to Mycroft's flat like she belonged there, one heel lightly tapping the floor, phone held in one impeccably manicured hand.

She was tall, composed, and dressed in a sharp slate-grey suit that looked like it cost more than Greg's monthly rent. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes flicked to him the moment he approached.

"You're Lestrade," she said, flatly. Not a question, but an observation.

Greg blinked. "Uh… yeah. And you are?"

"Anthea," she replied, as if that should explain everything. Then, with a vaguely amused arch of one eyebrow, she added, "Mycroft's assistant."

"Right," Greg said slowly, eyeing her. "Didn't know he had one."

She smiled - barely. "That's sort of the point."

Mycroft appeared in the doorframe before Greg could respond, looking a little pale but properly dressed, if a bit rumpled. His eyes landed on Greg, then shifted quickly to Anthea.

"That'll be all for now," Mycroft said, his voice quiet but commanding, "Thank you for the cake."

Anthea inclined her head with military precision. "Of course." She gave Greg a passing look - mildly curious, faintly amused - and then breezed past them without another word, already back on her phone as she disappeared down the hall.

Greg watched her go, then turned back to Mycroft. "Friend of yours?"

Mycroft stepped aside to let him in, mouth twitching in something that might've been a smile. "Colleague. And yes, she terrifies most people. I take it as a mark of your stubbornness that you're still standing."

Greg snorted, stepping into the flat. "Yeah, well, I've survived worse."

Mycroft's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary. "I know," he murmured. "Believe me, I know."

Greg hung up his coat and made a beeline for the kitchen. "So," he said over his shoulder, "how are you actually feeling? And don't give me that 'I'm fine' bollocks. Did you take your meds? Eat the breakfast I made?"

Mycroft followed him in slowly, clearly not used to being fussed over but not rejecting it either. "Yes, I took the painkillers. And no, I didn't have breakfast. Anthea arrived earlier than expected."

Greg opened the fridge, found the container of curry from last night, and popped it into the microwave without missing a beat. "Right. Well, she's gone now, and I'm here. So you're eating."

Mycroft leaned against the doorframe, watching him. "You're unusually domestic today."

Greg shot him a dry look. "Yeah, well, I've got a lot of practice running a café. And looking after stubborn posh bastards apparently comes with the territory."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "I'll try to be properly grateful."

Greg turned, arms crossed as the microwave hummed behind him. "You don't have to be grateful. Just don't skip meals, alright? Especially not when you're stitched together like a dodgy patchwork doll."

There was a brief pause before Mycroft said, softer now, "I won't. Not if you're watching."

Greg nodded once, letting that settle in the quiet between them. Then the microwave beeped, and he turned back around to serve up the food.

"Good. Now sit your arse down. Lunch is served."

They settled at the kitchen table, the clink of cutlery against ceramic the only sound for a moment as they dug into the warmed-up curry. It wasn't fancy, but it was hot, filling, comforting and Greg could already see the tension easing slightly from Mycroft's shoulders as he ate.

Greg watched him for a moment, then took a bite of his own before casually asking, "So… Anthea."

Mycroft glanced up without lifting his head. "What about her?"

Greg shrugged, chewing. "Just didn't expect you to have someone like her on your… team. Or whatever you call it. She's a bit terrifying."

"She's meant to be," Mycroft said, as if that were obvious. "Efficient, discreet, borderline omniscient. She handles logistics, surveillance oversight, and, occasionally, making sure I remember to eat. Though she has considerably less success with that last part than you do."

Greg smirked. "High praise."

"She's been with me since the beginning," Mycroft added. "One of the very few people I trust implicitly."

Greg nodded slowly, digesting that - not just the curry, but the sentiment. "She looked at me like she was trying to decide whether to shoot me or shake my hand."

"That's her default expression," Mycroft said dryly, then added, almost absently, "But if it's any comfort, she wouldn't have left us alone if she didn't think you were worth my time."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "And what do you think?"

Mycroft met his gaze steadily, no hesitation in his voice. "I think I agree with her."

Greg's smirk softened into something warmer. He leaned back in his chair, taking another bite. "Well. I'll try to live up to the terrifying expectations of your terrifying assistant."

Mycroft's lips twitched again, just barely. "Good. Because I rather think she likes you." He paused. "Which is also rather terrifying."

Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "Posh people, man."

Once they finished the last of the curry and Greg had managed to coax Mycroft into drinking a full glass of water - "You're not allowed to bleed and dehydrate on my watch, cheers" - he stood and began clearing the plates without ceremony.

"You don't have to-" Mycroft began, but Greg cut him off with a look. "Sit. Rest."

Mycroft obeyed, surprisingly without further protest, while Greg rinsed the plates and put them on the drying rack. He worked with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the rhythm of the task grounding him.

When he was done, he dried his hands and crossed the kitchen with purpose.

"Right. Shirt off," he said, already reaching for the hem of Mycroft's shirt.

Mycroft raised a brow. "So forward."

Greg gave him a flat look. "I'm checking your bandages. Don't make me wrestle you for it."

That earned the faintest flicker of amusement in Mycroft's eyes as he complied, slowly and carefully unbuttoning his shirt. Greg moved gently, fingers practiced now as he began unwrapping the bandage on Mycroft's upper arm.

He hissed softly through his teeth. "Still looks nasty, but… no sign of infection."

Mycroft stayed quiet, eyes on Greg's face as he worked.

Greg glanced up. "You in any pain?"

"Nothing I can't manage," Mycroft murmured.

Greg gave him a look that said he wasn't buying that entirely, but he didn't press. He re-dressed the wound with fresh bandages.

Next, he gently pressed at the tender-looking spot near Mycroft's collarbone. "Still bruised. You're lucky it's not broken."

"I'm aware," Mycroft said dryly. "The man who threw me into a steel cabinet was rather overzealous."

Greg's hands stilled for a beat, his jaw clenching. "Right. Let's hope you don't run into him again anytime soon."

"I rather think he's the one who should worry about that," Mycroft said, voice low.

Greg finished taping the bandage down and sat back slightly, studying him. "You're healing."

Mycroft nodded once. "Thanks to you."

Greg didn't say anything to that and just reached out and gently cupped Mycroft's jaw, thumb brushing against the fading bruise near his lip.

Greg didn't overthink it - he just leaned in.

His hand still resting lightly against Mycroft's jaw, he pressed a soft, careful kiss to his lips. Not hungry, not urgent. Just something quiet and steady, grounding them both in the here and now.

Mycroft didn't pull away. If anything, he leaned into it - just slightly, just enough.

When Greg finally drew back, his hand lingered for a moment longer, thumb brushing once more along the edge of Mycroft's cheekbone.

"You're alright," he murmured.

Mycroft's gaze held his, calm and unreadable in that familiar way. But there was a flicker of warmth now. Something softer at the corners of his mouth. "I'm better now," he replied, voice low.

Greg chuckled under his breath, eyes crinkling. "Charmer."

"Only when it's deserved."

Greg rolled his eyes, but he didn't move away. Not yet. Not quite ready to break the moment.

"I brought you a book, by the way," he said after a beat, quieter. "Thought you could use the distraction while I'm gone."

Mycroft's eyes flicked to Greg's face. His expression was soft in a way it rarely was - unguarded, touched with something quiet and earnest.

"I will read it," he said, voice low. "And think of you on every page."

Greg huffed a short laugh, ducking his head. "You sap."

But Mycroft didn't rise to the tease. He reached out instead, his fingers brushing lightly against Greg's wrist.

"Thank you," he said. Simply. Sincerely. "For… all of this."

Greg held his gaze, something tight blooming in his chest. "You don't have to thank me. You're not doing this alone anymore. That was the deal, remember?"

Mycroft nodded once, then hesitated just briefly before asking, "Will you come back again tonight? Stay another night?"

Greg's heart gave a subtle, unsteady skip. He covered it with a small smirk. "Trying to lure me in with your extensive library and terrifyingly good tea selection, are you?"

"Among other things," Mycroft said dryly, but there was a flicker of hope beneath it, barely hidden.

Greg softened. "Yeah. I'll come back."

Mycroft's fingers curled gently around his wrist - warm, steady. "Good," he murmured. "Because I sleep better when you're here."

Greg leaned in and pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Then I guess I'd better hurry back."

He gave Mycroft's hand one last squeeze before gently pulling away. "I really do have to go though," he said with a reluctant sigh. "Cat'll have my head if I'm gone too long. She's already covering the lunch rush."

Mycroft leaned back slightly, his expression composed but reluctant. "Of course. I wouldn't want to be responsible for a Lestrade mutiny."

Greg chuckled. "It's happened before. You do not want to get between Cat and her laminated rota."

As Greg grabbed his coat and shrugged it on, Mycroft stood, carefully, and walked him to the door.

"I'll order something for tonight," Mycroft said, pausing as Greg adjusted his scarf. "Something decent. I assume you'll be starving after closing?"

Greg glanced over with a smile. "You assume correctly. Nothing too fancy, though. I'll be knackered."

"I'll keep it simple," Mycroft replied. "Korean?"

"Perfect," Greg said and leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "See you tonight, then."

Mycroft nodded, watching him closely. "Be safe, Gregory."

"Always," he said with a wink and with that, he headed out the door, already counting the hours until he could come back.

The wind had picked up as Greg stepped out onto the street, tugging at his scarf and whistling down the pavement. He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and started toward the tube, but halfway there, he paused.

With a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, he doubled back and made a quick detour to Maison de Fromage - Cat's favourite little sandwich shop tucked between the florist and the vintage record store.

It smelled incredible the second he stepped inside: warm bread, caramelized onions, melted cheese. A queue had already formed, but he didn't mind waiting. When it was his turn, he ordered her usual. A toasted brie, cranberry, and rocket baguette, plus a second one, just in case.

The shop assistant bagged them up with a nod, and Greg paid with a quiet sense of satisfaction.

Back at Novel Grounds, he found Cat rearranging the pastry display with laser precision.

"Peace offering," Greg said, holding out the bag as he stepped inside.

Cat turned toward him, suspicious. "What did you do?"

Greg laughed, setting the bag on the counter. "I left you to survive the mid-afternoon caffeine rush solo. Least I could do is come bearing sandwiches."

Her expression softened immediately as she peeked inside. "Brie and cranberry?"

"Would I dare bring you anything else?"

She took the bag with a wink. "You're forgiven."

Greg leaned against the counter, already rolling up his sleeves. "Good. Let's get cracking eh?"

And with that, they got back to work - shoulder to shoulder, surrounded by the soft hum of music, the scent of fresh pastries, and the ever-steady rhythm of Novel Grounds.

Chapter Text

The moment Greg stepped into the hallway of Mycroft's building, the scent hit him like a freight train - smoky, sweet, spicy, and utterly mouthwatering.

His stomach gave a loud, traitorous growl, and he chuckled to himself as he knocked.

Mycroft opened the door just moments later, dressed down again - still neat, of course, but without the usual layers of formality. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair slightly tousled, and the faintest smell of grilled meat and sesame oil wafting from the flat.

"You weren't kidding," Greg said, stepping inside. "That smells incredible."

"I told you I'd order something decent," Mycroft replied smoothly. "Korean barbecue. I thought it might… lift the mood."

Greg dropped his backpack by the coat stand and followed his nose into the kitchen.

Laid out on the counter were neatly packed takeaway containers filled with bulgogi, galbi, kimchi, lettuce wraps, sticky rice, and an array of dipping sauces. Greg's eyes widened.

"Bloody hell, Holmes," he said, grinning. "You didn't order dinner. You ordered a feast."

Mycroft quirked a brow, clearly pleased. "You said you'd be hungry."

Greg laughed, grabbing two plates from the cupboard. "Marry me."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Eat first. Then we'll revisit your proposal."

They moved to the kitchen table instead of the sofa - Mycroft's suggestion, though Greg suspected it was more habit than formality. Still, it felt right. Like slipping into something steady and familiar, even in this strange, tender version of their shared space.

Greg sat down with a quiet sigh of contentment, taking in the neatness of the place contrasted by the deliciously messy spread between them.

"So," he said between bites of perfectly grilled bulgogi, "you missed Cat telling off a customer for trying to haggle over a second-hand cookbook. Said she'd rather sell her left foot than drop the price."

Mycroft raised a brow. "A practical woman."

Greg smirked. "She's got a real flair for dramatic customer service. Nearly gave the poor guy a heart attack. I had to throw in a free biscuit to get him to leave happy."

Mycroft gave a rare soft laugh, setting his chopsticks down. "Sounds eventful."

"Always is." Greg leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table. "What about you? Did you get to start on the book I left you?"

Mycroft nodded. "I did, actually. You didn't tell me it would be so… emotionally manipulative."

Greg grinned. "So you're saying you liked it?"

"I'm saying I resent how effective it was," Mycroft replied dryly. "The prose is unpolished, but it's sincere. I found myself… unexpectedly engaged."

Greg nudged his foot under the table. "Admit it, Holmes. You felt something."

"Tragically, yes."

Greg laughed, leaning back with a satisfied grin. "Told you it was good."

They ate in warm, companionable quiet for a while, exchanging the occasional comment about the food or a funny moment from the shop.

And for all the chaos that lingered around the edges of their lives, this - this felt steady. Like the part neither of them quite believed they'd get to have. Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just… real.

After the last bites of rice and grilled meat had disappeared and the plates sat empty between them, Greg leaned back in his chair with a satisfied groan, patting his stomach.

"If I eat one more bite, I'll have to be rolled out of here."

Mycroft, ever composed, dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then stood without a word and crossed to the fridge. He opened it and retrieved a sleek white bakery box from the middle shelf.

Greg tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "What's that?"

Mycroft returned to the table and opened the box with the same careful precision he did everything else. Inside was a rich chocolate cake. Dense, glossy, and clearly not store-bought. The smell alone was enough to make Greg sit up straighter.

Mycroft glanced at him. "Anthea dropped it off earlier."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Really? She doesn't strike me as the surprise dessert type."

"She isn't," Mycroft said, almost amused. "But it's… tradition."

Greg blinked, then leaned forward. "Wait. Hold on. Are you telling me-"

Mycroft sighed lightly. "Yes. It's my birthday."

Greg stared at him for a beat. "Today?"

Mycroft nodded.

"And you didn't think to mention it?"

"I didn't think it was relevant."

Greg made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "Of course you wouldn't. Mycroft Holmes, king of restraint, quietly turning a year older while stitching himself back together and not telling anyone."

Mycroft arched a brow. "Anthea knew."

Greg pointed a finger at him. "Well 'course your assistant knows. That doesn't count."

Mycroft shrugged, then began slicing the cake with far too much poise for someone caught celebrating his own secret birthday.

Greg watched him for a moment, eyes softening. "Well, then. Happy bloody birthday, Holmes."

Mycroft slid a piece onto a plate and handed it to him. "Thank you."

Greg took it, and his grin turned smug. "And lucky for you, I'm the kind of person who carries a spare candle in his bag."

Mycroft gave him a look that was somewhere between scepticism and deep amusement. "Why?"

Greg smirked. "You never know when a spontaneous birthday emergency might occur."

And for the first time all day, Mycroft actually laughed. Quiet, low, but real - Greg filed it away like a treasure.

He grinned around a forkful of decadent chocolate cake, then set it down and wiped his mouth dramatically with a napkin. "Right. Well. Now I have to get you a present."

Mycroft, mid-bite, gave him a dry look. "That's unnecessary."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "It's your birthday."

"Exactly."

"That's why it's necessary," Greg said, leaning forward slightly. "You didn't think I was just going to let you eat cake, quietly turn a year older, and slip past it unnoticed, did you?"

Mycroft's lips curved, faintly. "I had hoped."

Greg shook his head, amused. "No chance. I'm already plotting. Might even wrap it. Badly."

Mycroft gave a mock sigh. "If you must."

Greg's voice softened. "I must."

For a moment, they just looked at each other across the table. The remains of cake between them, the kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled.

"Don't expect anything flashy," Greg added after a beat. "It'll probably be something small. Something that makes you roll your eyes and then keep next to your desk."

"Then I suppose I'll make room for it," Mycroft murmured, his smile still lingering.

Greg sat back, watching him, warmth blooming in his chest. He hadn't planned to find out it was Mycroft's birthday this way. But now that he had, he wouldn't forget it. Not ever.

After the last crumbs of cake were cleared Greg did the dishes. He moved through the flat with an easy familiarity, rinsing the mugs and wiping down the counters while Mycroft sat for a moment longer, sipping the last of his tea.

When the kitchen was clean and quiet again, Greg turned toward him.

"Alright," he said gently, "you ready for that shower?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but the edges of his composure had softened over the course of the evening. "I believe I can manage bathing on my own."

"I believe you can attempt," Greg corrected with a slight smirk. "But after everything I saw under those bandages last night? You're getting help. No arguments."

Mycroft didn't put up a fight. Not really. He just gave Greg a measured look that almost, almost, disguised the exhaustion in his eyes. "Very well. But if you so much as attempt to sing in the bathroom-"

"I make no promises," Greg said, already leading the way.

The warmth from the heater kicking in as Greg adjusted the water. Steam slowly began to fill the space.

Mycroft stood at the mirror, unbuttoning his shirt with slow, practiced motions. Greg stayed close - not hovering, just… there. He helped ease the shirt off once Mycroft reached the shoulder with the worst bruising, then set it aside with care.

"Alright?" Greg asked quietly, hands brushing lightly over Mycroft's uninjured side as he steadied him.

Mycroft nodded once. "Yes."

Greg carefully took off all the bandages before they stepped into the shower together, supporting Mycroft as needed, his movements unhurried, careful, never crossing lines. He let the water run warm over Mycroft's shoulders, helped him shampoo, rinsed the soap gently away without fuss or commentary.

No teasing, no flirting. Just care. Just presence.

And when Mycroft leaned against him for a moment - brief but real - Greg didn't say a word. He simply lifted a hand and combed his fingers gently through his hair under the stream of water, steady and quiet.

They stayed like that until the steam softened the edges of the day and the world beyond the tiled walls fell away.

When they stepped out again, towels warm and waiting, Greg wrapped one gently around Mycroft's shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his damp hair.

"You're not alone," he whispered. And Mycroft, for once, didn't argue.

Mycroft sat quietly at the edge of the bed, towelling off his hair while Greg moved around the room with quiet purpose. The first aid kit was already open on the bedside table, fresh dressings laid out neatly beside it.

Greg knelt beside him, gentle and steady, as he inspected Mycroft's upper arm. The wound looked better, less inflamed now, healing slowly but cleanly.

"Still looks angry," Greg murmured. "But at least it's not screaming at me anymore."

Mycroft gave a faint hum of acknowledgment, watching him with calm eyes.

Greg cleaned the area again, then reapplied a fresh bandage with practiced ease. His fingertips brushed lightly against Mycroft's skin, but his touch never lingered longer than it needed to.

Once that was done, he took Mycroft's injured wrist in his hands, turning it gently.

"Still sore?"

Mycroft's lips quirked, dry. "It's a fracture, Greg. Of course it's sore."

Greg rolled his eyes but didn't comment. He checked the swelling and applied a cold compress for a few moments before wrapping the wrist in the temporary brace again - tighter this time, but still careful not to restrict movement too much.

"Anyone ever tell you you'd make a decent nurse?" Mycroft said quietly.

Greg glanced up at him, brow raised. "That your way of saying thank you?"

"It's my way of saying I trust you," Mycroft replied.

Greg went still for a moment, then gave a small nod as he fastened the last piece of the bandage. "I know," he said quietly. "I won't let you down."

Mycroft didn't respond, but his eyes lingered on Greg's face - softened, open in a way he rarely allowed. It was all the answer Greg needed.

He stood, cleared away the bandages, and returned the first aid kit to its place. Then, without a word, he pulled back the duvet and helped Mycroft settle beneath the covers.

Once Mycroft was comfortable, Greg climbed in beside him, shifting until they found that familiar space between them. The one where bodies fit without effort and silence felt like something shared, not empty.

Mycroft exhaled slowly and leaned into Greg's side, his head resting lightly against Greg's shoulder, arm tucked between them. Greg wrapped his own around him, protective and steady, hand brushing gently over his back in slow, reassuring strokes.

Greg pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft's head, soft and unspoken.

They lay there in the quiet for a few minutes, the soft hum of the city outside barely noticeable beneath the steady rhythm of their breathing.

Greg's thumb traced slow circles along Mycroft's side, just beneath the fabric of his shirt, and he could feel the tension easing from the other man's body, inch by inch.

"You know," Greg murmured after a while, his voice low and warm, "I didn't expect you to ask me to come back here tonight. Thought I'd have to fight you for it."

Mycroft huffed a quiet breath against his shoulder. "I thought about it several times."

Greg chuckled. "Figures."

"But," Mycroft added, "I also knew you'd win."

Greg smiled into the dark. "Not sure if that's romantic or just an insult to your stubbornness."

"A bit of both," Mycroft said softly.

They lay there for a while longer, breathing together in the dim light.

Greg eventually asked, "You ever had someone stay before?"

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "Not like this."

Greg didn't press, just nodded, the answer enough.

Mycroft shifted slightly to glance up at him. "You?"

"Few people. Few nights. Never stuck," Greg said honestly.

Mycroft's gaze lingered. "And now?"

Greg looked down at him, their faces close. "Feels different. Feels like I'd rather stay."

That earned a rare, quiet smile from Mycroft. "Good."

Greg pulled him a little closer, pressing another kiss to his temple. "Then we're on the same page."

But just before silence fully took over, Greg gave Mycroft a soft nudge with his nose and murmured, "I know I said it earlier, but… happy birthday, one more time."

Mycroft let out a breath of something like amusement. "You're sentimental."

Greg grinned against his shoulder. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to make sure you hear it properly this time, not while you're dodging compliments and pretending it isn't meaningful."

"It not."

Greg huffed. "Still. And I'll do it again next year. And the one after that."

Mycroft was quiet for a beat, then said softly, "Thank you."

Greg just tightened his arm around him. "Get some sleep, birthday boy."

And finally, with hearts steady and the dark wrapping gently around them, they let themselves rest - side by side, no space left between.

Greg ended up spending the next couple of nights at Mycroft's flat. It wasn't even a question anymore - he just stayed. The rhythm of it settled in quickly: quiet mornings with coffee and warm glances over breakfast, evenings spent curled together on the sofa with books or the news murmuring in the background, and nights tangled up in soft sheets and steady breath.

But by midweek, Greg's patience began to wear thin. Because against every bit of common sense - and every gentle protest Greg could muster - Mycroft went back to the office.

He'd put on the suit, smoothed back his hair, and walked out the door like nothing had happened. As if his arm didn't ache with every movement, as if the bruises didn't still shadow beneath his collar, as if he hadn't spent a week fighting for control of his own name and safety.

"It's too soon," Greg had said, standing in the doorway that morning with his arms crossed, watching Mycroft knot his tie with practiced ease.

"I can't stay away," Mycroft had replied, not unkindly. "If I don't show up, they'll assume I'm weakened. Compromised."

"You are," Greg had argued, gesturing vaguely at the sling Mycroft still refused to wear. "That's the whole bloody point of rest, Mycroft. You need it. No one's going to revoke your clearance for taking two more days."

But Mycroft had simply given him that cool, quiet look - the one that usually ended conversations before they began.

"I appreciate your concern. I truly do," he said. "But in my line of duty, I have to act a certain way."

Greg hadn't pushed further.

But now, each night when Mycroft returned, looking polished on the surface but pale and worn around the edges, Greg's worry gnawed at him like a loose thread he couldn't stop pulling.

He didn't say anything more. Not yet.

Instead, he stayed. Made sure Mycroft ate. Checked his bandages. Rested beside him even when Mycroft refused to rest himself.

Because if he couldn't make him stop pushing… at the very least, he could be there when it all inevitably caught up with him.

But with every passing day, Greg could feel it - like fog slowly creeping into the space between them.

Mycroft was there. Physically present. He still came home each night, still accepted the dinners Greg made, still let himself be tucked into bed, his injured wrist gently cradled as Greg rewrapped the bandages.

But something had shifted.

The warmth in Mycroft's voice had dulled. The touches were fewer, lighter. He smiled less. His answers became shorter, his silences longer. Conversations that once stretched lazily over cups of tea now ended with, "I'm tired," or, "We'll talk later."

Greg didn't push. He'd seen this before. With officers after long cases, after things went sideways. The kind of protective shell people wrapped around themselves when their minds were still in the thick of it.

But this was different. This was Mycroft. The man who had let him in, who had laid beside him in quiet vulnerability, who had asked - not ordered - him to stay.

And now, he was slipping. Back behind the walls. Bit by bit.

Greg watched him one night as Mycroft sat on the sofa, fully dressed despite the late hour, staring at his laptop as if it might bite. His jaw was tight. The circles under his eyes darker. His usual poise fraying at the edges.

"You're not alright," Greg said quietly, from the doorframe.

Mycroft didn't look up. "I never said I was."

Greg took a step forward. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to push me out."

"I'm not," Mycroft said, still not meeting his eyes.

But he was and Greg felt every inch of that distance settling like cold between them.

Greg stepped into the living room, setting the dish towel down a little harder than intended on the back of the chair. "You are, Mycroft. Don't tell me you're not. You've been shutting me out since the moment you walked back into that damn office."

Mycroft's gaze remained fixed on the blank screen in front of him. "You wouldn't understand."

That did it.

Greg's jaw clenched. "Right. Because I haven't spent the last week watching you limp through the front door and pretend everything's fine. Because I haven't seen you barely sleep. Because clearly, I'm just some bloke who cooks you dinner and puts on plasters. What would I know?"

Mycroft's voice stayed cool, but there was something sharp behind it. "It's not about you, Gregory."

"No," Greg shot back, "but it damn well could be if you keep pushing like this. You're not made of stone, Mycroft. You can't pretend what happened didn't shake you."

Mycroft finally looked up, his eyes shadowed. "You think I have a choice? That I can afford to fall apart just because I want to?"

Greg stared at him. "I think you can afford to be human. And I think I've earned more than being treated like I'm in the way."

Mycroft flinched, barely but it was enough.

The silence that followed was thick.

Greg shook his head, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "You asked me to stay. You let me in. But I can't keep knocking on a door you won't open anymore."

Mycroft looked away, lips pressed into a line, throat working like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

Greg stood there for a long moment, jaw tight, hands curled loosely at his sides. Then, with a quiet breath, he said, " I'm gonna head back to my flat tonight."

Mycroft's eyes snapped back to him, but Greg held up a hand before he could speak.

"Not storming off. Not giving up," he added. "But I think we both need a bit of space. You've been pulling away, and I've been trying to fix something you're not ready to talk about."

Mycroft didn't argue, but the way his expression tightened said enough.

Greg took a step back toward the kitchen. "You can contact me once you're ready to talk. But I'm not going to stand here waiting for you to let me in again if you don't want me there."

He turned, quiet footsteps carrying him into the bedroom, gathering his things with slow, deliberate motions.

Greg slung his bag over his shoulder, double-checked that he hadn't left anything behind, then paused at the door. He looked back at Mycroft, still seated on the sofa, back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap like he was trying to appear untouched by the conversation they'd just had.

But his eyes told a different story - guarded, distant, and just a little hollow.

Greg lingered for a second longer, searching for something. A word, a gesture, anything that said stay. Nothing came.

So he nodded once, more to himself than to Mycroft. "Goodnight, Mycroft," he said quietly. "Take care."

Mycroft didn't move. Didn't speak.

Greg waited a beat longer, jaw clenched against the silence, then turned and opened the door. The soft click of it closing behind him sounded far too final.

The tube was mostly empty, the soft rattle of the train echoing through the carriage like a metronome ticking in time with Greg's pulse. He sat slouched in the corner seat, one arm draped over his backpack, the other gripping his phone like it might slip through his fingers if he let himself feel too much.

He stared at the contact name on the screen for a few seconds, thumb hovering. Then he tapped. It rang once, twice-

"Greg?" came Matt's voice, warm and curious, even through the tinny speaker. "Everything alright?"

Greg let out a slow breath, eyes closing as the city blurred past him through the window. "No. Not really."

There was a pause. "Where are you?"

"Heading home. Just left Mycroft's."

Another pause, sharper this time. "What happened?"

"I don't even know, Matt," Greg said, rubbing a hand over his face. "It's like… he's just shutting down. Pushing me out little by little. Pretending everything's fine when it's bloody obvious it's not. And I've tried, I've really tried, but tonight... I couldn't keep knocking."

Matt was silent for a beat. Then: "You left?"

Greg nodded, then remembered he was on the phone. "Yeah. Told him I was going back to my flat. That I thought we both needed some space."

"And he just let you walk out?"

Greg's throat tightened. "Didn't even say goodbye."

There was a long exhale on the other end. "Shit, Greg. I'm sorry."

Greg blinked hard, looking down at the scuffed floor of the train. "I don't know if I did the right thing."

"You did," Matt said firmly. "You set a boundary. You showed up for him, and you stayed longer than most people would've. But if he's not letting you in, you can't keep setting yourself on fire to keep him warm."

Greg didn't say anything for a moment. The words hit harder than he expected.

"I just… I thought it meant something. What we had."

"It does," Matt said. "You still mean something to him. He's just… he's got a fortress of armour and trauma, and duty stacked between you and whatever he feels. That's not on you."

Greg leaned his head back against the glass. "I miss him already."

"I know," Matt said gently. "I'm here, alright? Anytime you need to talk. Come by this week. We'll drink, play terrible music, and I'll remind you how love's a bloody battlefield."

Greg gave a soft, humourless chuckle. "Thanks, mate."

"Anytime. And Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"If he's smart, and we both know he is, he'll come find you."

Greg swallowed hard. "I hope so."

Greg sat there for a moment, the weight in his chest not quite gone, but eased by the sound of his best friend on the other end of the line.

He adjusted his grip on the phone, voice quieter now. "Thanks again, Matt. Really."

"No need," Matt replied, gentle and sincere. "You've always been there for me. It's just my turn."

Greg smiled faintly, eyes fixed on the dark reflection of himself in the tube window. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably bottle everything up and get mistaken for a moody poet," Matt teased lightly.

Greg chuckled under his breath. "You're not wrong."

"Get home safe," Matt said, more softly now. "Text me if you need anything. Even if it's just a stupid meme to distract you."

"I will. Night, mate."

"Night, Greg."

Greg ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket, the train rumbling on beneath him.

And for the first time that evening, he didn't feel entirely alone.

When Greg stepped into his flat above Novel Grounds, the familiar scent of old books and roasted coffee greeted him, but it didn't feel comforting this time. It felt hollow.

The place was tidy, quiet, exactly as he'd left it. And yet… it felt colder somehow. Like something vital was missing.

He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door and stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. Mycroft's absence was a dull ache in his chest, a weight he hadn't quite prepared for. It lingered in every room, even though Mycroft had never really stayed here - not for long anyway.

Greg rubbed a hand over his face and sighed.

Don't think about it. Just… do something.

He tossed his bag onto the sofa and made his way into the bedroom, stripping the sheets off the bed like it was routine, like he'd planned to do it anyway. Then he gathered his laundry - shirts, socks, jumpers - and dragged it all to the washer tucked into the small utility closet off the hallway.

Sorting colours. Measuring detergent. Starting the machine.

The whirring hum of the washer filled the flat like white noise, something to push back the quiet.

Greg leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, staring at nothing in particular.

It wasn't much, but it was something and right now, distraction was all he had.

Once the laundry was spinning, Greg didn't stop moving.

He went back into the kitchen and opened every cupboard - not because anything needed rearranging, but because doing something was better than sitting still. He reorganized the spice rack, wiped down every surface, even polished the kettle just to keep his hands busy.

The hum of the washing machine in the background felt like a heartbeat in an otherwise too-quiet space.

Next came the bathroom. Towels were refolded. The mirror wiped spotless. He scrubbed the sink with unnecessary vigour, then moved on to the shower tiles, pretending he hadn't already done them the week before.

He changed the bed sheets after the dryer buzzed, smoothing the corners a little too precisely. The clean linen felt good under his hands - fresh, warm, grounding.

Still, his chest ached with the absence of the man who he should be with.

He vacuumed. Took out the rubbish. Tidied the bookshelf even though it was already tidy. Anything to stop the stillness from creeping in.

By the time he finally sank onto the sofa, the flat gleamed. But inside, Greg still felt as rumpled and restless as the bed had been when he walked in.

He leaned back, rubbed a hand over his face, and told himself he'd feel better in the morning.

And the morning came, grey and listless, bleeding weak light through the curtains.

Greg sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might offer him answers. His hair was a mess, his eyes red-rimmed from the sleep he never really got, and his whole body felt heavy, like he'd aged five years overnight.

He'd tossed and turned for hours, alternating between punching his pillow and staring at the ceiling, waiting for a message that never came. His phone sat silent on the nightstand, untouched since he put it down the night before.

Even the familiar comfort of his own sheets hadn't helped.

He felt off-kilter. Like a guest in his own skin.

The flat was spotless, laundry folded, dishes clean, shelves pristine and yet, it all felt so… empty.

The only thing that greeted him that morning was silence. And it filled the room like fog.

Greg rubbed his eyes, stood, and shuffled into the kitchen on autopilot. He made coffee. Toasted bread. Took a single bite and abandoned the rest. Even the coffee didn't taste right.

He leaned against the counter, mug in hand, and stared at the faint outline of the shop sign through the window.

The routine would pull him through the day. It always did.

But it wouldn't change the fact that something - or someone - was missing.

When Greg finally made it down to Novel Grounds, the bell above the door chimed like always, and the scent of fresh pastries and coffee wafted out to meet him.

Cat was already behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with her usual efficiency, a tray of still-steaming muffins cooling beside her.

She looked up as he walked in and she saw him.

Her sharp eyes took in everything in a single glance: the tired slump in his shoulders, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the subtle way he was trying not to look like something inside him had been pulled loose.

Greg waited for the usual barrage. But to his surprise, it didn't come.

Cat didn't push. Didn't ask.

She just gave him a quiet nod and a cup of coffee, already waiting for him on the counter like she'd known he'd need it.

"Morning," she said softly, not prying, not pretending.

Greg took the cup gratefully. "Morning."

They fell into the rhythm of opening the shop - sweeping floors, setting out the day's specials, arranging the tables - without anything more than a few gentle exchanges. Cat kept the conversation light, easy. No probing. No sharp-edged curiosity.

And somehow, that was exactly what Greg needed.

Not someone to demand an explanation. Just someone who knew, and stayed close anyway.

And that's exactly what Cat did.

All day, she moved around the shop with a quiet kind of presence - always close, never in the way. She kept things running like clockwork, managing the till, chatting with regulars, checking on the pastries with her usual flourish.

But through it all, she kept an eye on Greg. Not in a hovering, concerned sort of way. Just… there.

When he forgot to flip the sign to Open, she did it without a word.

When he spaced out in front of the register, she stepped in smoothly with a smile to the customer and a gentle nudge to bring him back.

When the lunch rush came and Greg looked like he might be swallowed by it, she passed him a fresh croissant and a smirk and said, "Keep moving, Lestrade. You're not that charming when you're grumpy."

He almost smiled at that. Almost.

In the quieter moments, she didn't push, didn't press. She just made sure there was always a cup of tea nearby, always a muffin left unclaimed by the counter, always one hand ready to help clean or carry or just be there.

Greg didn't say anything, not really. But he noticed.

And when the bell above the door rang again and again, and none of those times was him walking in, Greg thought he might have crumbled, if not for the woman at his side who knew when to talk and, more importantly, when not to.

Cat was many things. Sharp-tongued, fiercely protective, impossible to argue with, but today, she was his anchor and that was everything.

So when the sun began to dip low over Covent Garden and the last of the afternoon crowd filtered out, it came as no surprise when Cat looked up from the pastry display, dusted flour from her hands, and said, with absolutely no room for negotiation, "You're coming over to ours for dinner tonight."

Greg, elbow-deep in wiping down the espresso machine, blinked. "What?"

She arched a brow. "You heard me. Tom's roasting something. I made dessert. You need good food and real people around you, and I'm not letting you go back to that flat to sit in the dark with a sad glass of whisky and pretend you're fine."

Greg huffed, drying his hands on a towel. "I wasn't planning-"

She cut him off with a single look.

He sighed. "Cat…"

"No." Her tone softened a little, but her eyes didn't waver. "You don't have to talk. You don't have to do anything. But you will sit at our table, eat a plateful of food, and let someone else carry the mood for a few hours."

Greg opened his mouth to argue again, then closed it. Because the truth was, he didn't want to go home to that empty flat. And even more than that, he didn't want to be alone.

So after a beat, he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright," he said quietly. "I'll come."

Cat gave a sharp, satisfied nod and tossed him a Tupperware container. "Good. Now pack up those scones and let's close early. You're off the clock."

Greg almost smiled - almost.

The moment Greg stepped through the front door of Cat and Tom's flat, the warm scent of roasted garlic, herbs, and something meaty hit him like a comforting wave.

And then Tom hit him - figuratively, but only just.

"Oi, there he is!" Tom grinned, striding toward him and pulling him into a hug that could've cracked ribs. "Get in here, you miserable sod."

Greg let out a surprised grunt, arms pinned for a second before he managed to return the embrace with a soft chuckle.

"Bloody hell, Tom," he muttered, muffled against the man's shoulder. "Trying to crush the rest of me that hasn't already been crushed?"

Tom just laughed and gave one last squeeze before letting him go. "Just making sure you remember what proper affection feels like."

Greg stepped back, trying to keep the sting out of his smile. "Right. That's what that was. Not an ambush."

"Same thing, really," Tom quipped. "You want a pint or are you going to pretend to be civil and ask for tea like a proper gentleman?"

"I'll take the pint," Greg said with a small grin. "But only if you've got something cold."

Tom tossed him a wink. "Does a fridge full of cheap lager count?"

Greg shrugged off his coat, hanging it by the door, already feeling lighter than he had all day. The flat was warm, cluttered with toys and the faint sound of music from the kitchen, and in that moment, it felt like walking straight into the heart of a life that kept moving even when yours hit pause.

Before Greg could even settle on the sofa, Evie and Ollie came hurtling into the room like two whirlwinds, full of energy and clearly on a mission.

"Greg!" Evie shouted, already grabbing his hand. "You have to be the wizard!"

"We're playing the dragon game," Ollie added with great seriousness, brandishing a cardboard sword. "And you're the wizard who has to save the kingdom, but also you might secretly be the dragon. We haven't decided yet."

Greg blinked. "Wait, how can I be both?"

"That's what makes it interesting," Evie said, as if he were slow.

Greg gave a dramatic sigh and stood, arms raised. "Alright then, lead the way. But I'm not responsible if this kingdom collapses under my poor magical decision-making."

The kids whooped and immediately began dragging him toward the blanket fort they'd constructed in their bedroom, complete with throw pillows, paper crowns, and at least three stuffed animals designated as "royal advisors."

In the kitchen, Tom glanced over his shoulder from the oven and chuckled. "You're a brave man, Lestrade. You've just walked into a full-scale fantasy warzone."

Greg, now wearing a towel cape and holding a plastic wand Evie had forced into his hand, shot him a look. "You didn't warn me they'd unionised."

Tom grinned. "You're on your own, mate. I'm just the cook."

While the roast finished and the scent of gravy and garlic filled the flat, Greg let himself be swept into the chaos. There were riddles to solve, dragons to tame, and at one point, a dramatic betrayal involving a teddy bear and a peanut butter sandwich.

And for a little while - laughing with the kids, his towel-cape flapping as he dodged a foam sword - Greg forgot the weight pressing on his chest.

All that mattered in that moment was the joy on the twins' faces and the warmth of a family that never once needed to be asked to pull him back in.

And just as Greg was about to deliver an impassioned monologue as the morally conflicted wizard-possibly-dragon - complete with exaggerated hand gestures and a suspiciously good Scottish accent - Cat's voice rang out from the kitchen:

"Alright, you lot! Dinner's ready. Come wash up and get in here before everything goes cold!"

The twins let out dramatic groans, protesting the interruption to their epic campaign.

"But we were this close to defeating the shadow bear!" Ollie cried, flopping backward onto the floor in despair.

"I was about to cast the spell of eternal lunchtime!" Evie added, hands thrown in the air.

Greg laughed, tugging off the towel-turned-cape and setting down the wand. "Well, sounds like dinner might be the real magical reward, yeah?"

That got them moving.

As the twins scampered off to wash their hands, Greg stood and stretched, catching Tom leaning against the kitchen doorframe with a grin.

"You survived," Tom said.

"Barely," Greg replied. "They take their world-building very seriously."

Tom clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll call it exposure therapy."

Together, they made their way into the kitchen where Cat was already dishing up generous portions of roast chicken, crispy potatoes, honeyed carrots, and green beans. The smell alone made Greg's stomach growl.

"Sit, eat, and tell me you're not still living off of curry and guilt," Cat said, handing him a plate with a look that brooked no argument.

Greg chuckled as he took his seat. "You know me too well."

"We all do," she replied, softer now.

The table filled with conversation and laughter, the twins' voices rising with excitement as they recounted parts of their game.

Once the kids had been wrangled into their pyjamas and tucked away with bedtime stories and firm promises that the wizard-dragon storyline would continue tomorrow, the flat fell into a soft, golden quiet.

Greg, Cat, and Tom migrated back into the living room, wine glasses in hand. The lights were low, a candle flickered gently on the coffee table, and the smell of dinner still lingered pleasantly in the air. Tom kicked his feet up onto the ottoman while Cat curled up in the armchair, tucking her legs beneath her.

Greg settled onto the sofa, wine glass resting on his thigh, staring for a moment at the rim before taking a sip.

The silence between the three of them wasn't awkward. It was easy. Familiar. The kind that came when everything that needed to be said didn't have to be forced out right away.

But eventually, Greg shifted forward, letting out a slow breath. "I, uh… I should probably tell you what's going on."

Cat glanced over at him without surprise. Tom sat up a little straighter, but didn't say anything - just listened.

Greg stared into his glass for a moment. "Mycroft's been pushing me away."

Cat's brow furrowed, but she didn't speak. She just let him go on.

"Ever since he went back to work, it's been like watching someone slowly lock every door from the inside. And I stayed, I tried, but last night it was like talking to a wall. And when I left..." He swallowed, jaw tight. "He didn't stop me."

Tom's voice was low. "Didn't say anything at all?"

Greg shook his head. "Not even goodbye."

Silence stretched for a beat, heavy but not judgmental.

Cat leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "I'm sorry, love."

Greg gave a weak smile. "I don't know if I made the right call leaving. But I couldn't keep waiting for him to let me in again when he'd already shut the door."

Cat nodded slowly, her voice soft. "You did what you needed to do. That doesn't mean it hurts less."

Greg stared into the middle distance for a second, then exhaled. "I miss him."

Tom reached over, gave his shoulder a squeeze. "Of course you do."

Greg stared into the deep red swirl in his glass, trying not to let the ache in his chest settle in too deep.

Tom shifted beside him, stretching out his legs with a quiet breath before speaking - calm, even, like he'd been thinking on it for a while. "You know," he said, "sometimes people pull away not because they want you gone, but because they don't know how to let you stay."

Greg looked over, brow creased.

Tom continued, gaze steady. "Mycroft's probably been fighting every instinct he has just letting you in the way he already has. You showing up the way you did… that's not small. And neither is what he's feeling. But some people, when they're scared, when they've been trained to hide everything, they think pushing you away is the safest way to protect what they've got."

Greg didn't say anything at first, but the words hit home in a way that made his chest feel tight all over again.

Tom gave a half-smile. "Doesn't mean it's right. Doesn't mean you have to sit and wait forever. But it might mean he's not done. Just… lost."

Greg let out a slow breath. "You think he'll come back?"

"I think," Tom said gently, "if he meant what he showed you, even when he couldn't say it, then yeah. He'll come back. When he's ready."

Greg nodded, the weight in his chest not gone, but eased just a little. It wasn't closure. But it was perspective.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The days passed. Slow, steady, and quieter than Greg would have liked.

He kept himself moving, filling his time with anything and everything to avoid falling back into the silence Mycroft had left behind. He finished digitalizing some of Arthur's old ledgers, helped Cat rearrange the front window for the upcoming spring book display, even scrubbed the grout in the café's bathroom just to stay distracted.

On Sunday Matt had insisted – or more like demanded - he come over.

Greg spent most of the day draped across Matt's well-worn sofa, one leg slung over the armrest, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. The TV flickered with the over-the-top explosions of a mid-2000s action movie that took itself far too seriously - much to their amusement.

Matt, curled into the corner of the couch with his own slice and a smirk, pointed at the screen as a car flipped through the air and landed perfectly on all four wheels. "Oh, come on. Not even gravity respects this franchise anymore."

Greg barked a laugh. "You're just mad because you used to love this rubbish."

"I was seventeen and emotionally vulnerable," Matt shot back. "I also wore a fedora for an entire year. Mistakes were made."

Greg nearly choked on his beer. "Please tell me you have photos."

"Never. They've been destroyed. Like this film's credibility."

They kept at it, one film bleeding into the next. They argued over which beloved series had aged the worst. Matt insisted it was The Matrix sequels, while Greg stubbornly defended them and threw Fast & Furious into the ring just to wind him up.

It was easy. Stupid. The kind of nonsense they used to fill entire weekends with before adulthood, real responsibility, and people like Mycroft Holmes had reshaped Greg's life.

The name didn't come up. Not directly. But it sat in the room with them, unspoken but not unwelcome - hovering in the pauses between conversations, in the way Matt handed him a second beer without asking, in the way Greg didn't quite lean back far enough to be comfortable.

At one point, Matt glanced over, his voice quieter. "You look better."

Greg shrugged. "Feel lighter. For now."

Matt didn't push. Just nodded and tossed him another slice. "That's what Sundays are for. Pizza, bad cinema, and putting off your emotional breakdown till Monday."

Greg smirked. "Is that what we're doing?"

"Mate, it's a lifestyle."

They didn't talk about whether Mycroft would call again. Whether this thing between them would hold.

But for a few hours, stretched out on a battered sofa with a half-eaten pizza and the comfort of someone who knew him without needing explanation, Greg didn't have to. And that, for today, was enough.

But then Monday came.

And Tuesday.

Still nothing.

Until Wednesday morning.

Greg was behind the counter at Novel Grounds, wiping down the espresso machine while Cat chatted with a regular near the window, when his phone buzzed against the pastry case.

He glanced at it, expecting a delivery notification or a text from Matt.

But no.

{ I trust you've been well – M }

That was it. No context. No emotion. No follow-up.

Greg stared at the message, something cold blooming in his chest. After days, days of silence, of walking away from a man who couldn't say goodbye, this was what he got?

He blinked at the screen again, like maybe it would rearrange itself into something that made sense.

It didn't.

Cat looked up from the register just in time to see the storm brewing on his face. "You alright?"

Greg didn't answer. He just turned on his heel and stalked into the back room, gripping his phone like it might shatter.

Because after everything that was all he got? No apology. No explanation. No I miss you. Just a polite, clinical I trust you've been well.

Greg stood in the back room, his pulse thudding in his ears as he stared down at the message. His thumb hovered over the keyboard, breath tight, jaw locked.

He scoffed aloud. "Are you kidding me?"

The words typed themselves faster than he could stop them.

{ That's it? After everything? You let me walk out, say nothing, and then drop back in with a bloody wellness check like you're emailing a colleague!? }

He didn't stop.

{ I was there, Mycroft. I stayed. And when you pushed me out, I gave you space because I thought you needed it. But this? This cold little message after days of silence? }

His fingers paused, but the anger didn't.

{ You don't get to act like nothing happened. If you want to talk, really talk, then bloody say it. But don't you dare drop crumbs and expect me to follow like nothing's changed. }

He read it over once. Twice.

And then, with a hard breath through his nose, he hit send.

There was no relief. No satisfaction. Just a weight in his chest, like something that had been simmering for days had finally boiled over.

Greg locked the screen and set the phone down, breathing heavy in the quiet hum of the back room.

He then set it to silent with a tap. He didn't want to see the typing bubble. He didn't want to wait for it. Not now.

He blew out a breath, rolled his shoulders back, and walked out of the back room like he hadn't just unloaded every tangled knot in his chest into a single message.

Cat glanced up from where she was standing by the window but didn't say anything. She didn't need to. She took one look at his face, gave a small nod.

And Greg got back to work.

He served customers, refilled the pastry case, helped a teenager find a battered copy of 1984 for a school assignment. He joked with regulars, checked the bean grinder, and tried not to glance at the phone burning a hole in the back of his mind.

But not once did he reach for it. Not until the last customer had left. Not until the lights were dimmed, the chairs stacked, and the front door locked.

Only then, in the hush of the closed shop, did he pick up his phone, breath catching just slightly as he looked at the screen and saw several new text notifications from Mycroft Holmes.

{ You're right. I deserved that – M }

Greg's chest tightened.

{ I've spent days trying to find the words that might make this easier. But there aren't any. I shut you out. Not because I stopped caring, but because I didn't know how to keep caring without risking everything else – M }

Greg's eyes scanned the words quickly, a dozen emotions flickering just beneath the surface.

{ You're not a liability, Greg. You never were. But I've spent my entire life being taught that emotions are distractions. That vulnerability is dangerous. And when it got real between us, I panicked – M }

Greg exhaled slowly, thumb trembling slightly where it held the phone.

{ I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't even know if I deserve that. But I do want to see you. To talk. Properly. No walls. No riddles. Just me. If you'll let me – M }

Greg stared at the screen, heart thudding. The shop around him was dark and still, the silence stretching - waiting.

Greg read the last message again, slower this time. He felt it all - anger, sadness, relief, that ever-present ache beneath his ribs that hadn't left since the night he walked out.

But most of all, he felt the crack in the silence.

The honesty in Mycroft's words was imperfect, but it was real. And maybe that was more than Greg had ever expected.

{ Come by tomorrow. After I close up. We talk. Face to face. }

He stared at the blinking cursor, then added:

{ And bring tea. The good kind. I'm not making it for you this time. }

He hit send before he could second-guess it, then locked his phone and slipped it into his pocket.

It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a door, left open.

The next day crawled by with agonizing slowness.

Greg kept himself busy with cleaning, shelving new arrivals, chatting with regulars, but everything he did was laced with anticipation. Every glance at the clock brought him closer to closing time, and with it, the promise of something.

He didn't know what it would look like.

But he knew Mycroft would come. He felt it.

Still, his heart was thudding annoyingly hard as the last customer waved goodbye and the bell over the door chimed softly behind them. Greg locked up without ceremony, flipping the sign to Closed, and pulled the blinds halfway down. He moved through the shop on autopilot, wiping counters, stacking chairs, sweeping behind the counter.

He checked the time: 7:04 p.m. And then, as if on cue, the bell over the door rang again.

Greg looked up and there he was. Mycroft Holmes. In the doorway.

Still in a suit, but his coat was folded over his arm instead of buttoned up around him like armour. His tie was loosened. His expression unreadable, but softer than Greg remembered.

And in his free hand?

A bag from that fancy tea shop in Bloomsbury.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You actually brought tea."

Mycroft stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. "You gave me conditions. I thought it best to meet them exactly."

Greg nodded once, slowly. "Alright, then," he said. "Let's talk."

He led the way to Mycroft's once-usual table - tucked into the quiet corner near the window, where the light filtered through the blinds in soft, dusky lines. Mycroft followed silently, his polished shoes muted against the floorboards, and set his things down with deliberate care.

He placed the sleek white bag from the tea shop on the table first, then pulled out two small boxes. One filled with loose leaf tea, the other with delicate shortbread biscuits, the kind Greg had once jokingly said were 'too posh to chew'.

Mycroft sat across from him, folding his hands together on the table like he was preparing to deliver a statement in Parliament.

Greg didn't touch the tea. Didn't comment. Just leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed and waited. He wasn't going to make this easy.

Mycroft met his gaze. There was no flinch, no retreat - but his voice, when he spoke, was quieter than usual.

"I've had to give a lot of speeches in my life," he said slowly, "but none that ever mattered as much as this."

Greg didn't say a word.

"I was scared," Mycroft continued, eyes steady but shadowed. "Not of you. Of what you made me feel. Of what that meant. I thought if I let you in too far, everything else, my work, my control, my… mask would come undone."

Greg's jaw ticked, but he said nothing.

"I didn't know how to balance both," Mycroft admitted. "So I chose the part I knew how to handle. The part that didn't ask me to be anything other than functional."

A pause.

"But I missed you. Every day."

Greg's fingers tapped once against the table, slow and rhythmic. His expression was unreadable, but his voice, when it came, was low and even. "So why now?"

Mycroft didn't hesitate. "Because I'm done pretending that keeping you out is safer. For me. Or for you."

He slid the tea toward him - an offering, small and symbolic.

"I can't promise to be easy," he said. "But I'm here. Fully. If you'll have me."

Greg looked down at the tea Mycroft slid across the table, then back up at him - expression still unreadable, jaw set firm.

But he didn't reach for it. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low and tight. "No. That's not enough."

Mycroft stilled, the faintest flicker of something crossing his face - surprise, maybe. Hurt, possibly. But Greg didn't flinch.

"You don't get to show up with tea and a nice speech and expect everything to slide back into place," Greg said. "You shut me out. You let me walk away. And for days, I heard nothing. Not even a 'wait.' Not even a goodbye."

Mycroft's throat moved, but he didn't interrupt.

Greg shook his head, heat rising in his chest now. "You say you were scared. That you didn't know how to handle it. But you still made the choice to shut me out. So you don't get to sit here and say you missed me like it explains everything. I need more than that."

There was a heavy pause.

Then, quieter but no less sharp: "I need to know if I'm going to be left outside the next time things get hard. I need to know that when you say you're here, you mean it."

Mycroft met his gaze, and for a long beat, he said nothing. Then, finally, he nodded once. "You deserve that."

Greg held his stare. "So tell me, Mycroft. No more riddles. No more speeches. Just the truth. Why now? What changed?"

And this time, Mycroft didn't dodge the question. He folded his hands tighter, let out a breath, and said, softly but clearly, "You did."

He just watched him - eyes narrowed, jaw tight - like he was trying to decide if that answer was enough. If he was enough.

Mycroft held his ground. No theatrics. No elegant deflections. Just silence, and the weight of truth sitting uncomfortably between them.

"You changed everything," Mycroft said, quieter now. "You walked into my life and made it harder to lie to myself. About what I needed. About what I wanted."

Greg crossed his arms, his voice low. "And you think saying that now fixes what you broke?"

"No," Mycroft said immediately. "I don't. I don't think it fixes anything. But I do think it's a start. I needed time to understand what I was running from. And the truth is…" He paused, eyes steady on Greg. "I wasn't just scared of losing control. I was scared of what it would mean to need someone."

Greg's mouth twisted into something bitter. "And when you finally did, you pushed me away."

"Yes," Mycroft admitted. "And it was cowardly. I won't pretend otherwise."

Silence fell again, heavy with everything that still hung between them.

Then Greg exhaled sharply and leaned back. "I needed you. And you weren't there."

"I know," Mycroft said softly.

Greg looked away for a moment, jaw clenching, before his voice came again, low and rough. "You hurt me."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "And I will spend however long it takes to make that right. If you let me."

The quiet stretched. And for a moment, Greg didn't answer. He leaned forward again, gaze steady, guarded but open just a sliver.

"You're not getting a clean slate," he said. "You've got to earn your way back in."

"I wouldn't ask for anything less," Mycroft replied.

Greg's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer… then, wordlessly, he reached for the tea.

Greg held the warm cup between his hands, not drinking, not looking at Mycroft just yet - just letting the silence stretch, letting the moment settle. Letting Mycroft wait for once.

And Mycroft did wait.

Patiently. Carefully.

When Greg finally looked up, his expression unreadable, Mycroft spoke again. This time with no preamble, no flourish, "I want to take you out."

Greg blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"A date," Mycroft clarified, tone steady, but his fingers tapped once against the table. "A proper one. Not dinner under surveillance or cups of tea between interrogations. Something simple. Quiet. Just us."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You want to date me publicly now?"

Mycroft met his gaze without flinching. "Yes."

"You sure you're ready for that?" Greg asked, half-teasing, half-testing. "You? Out in the wild? With me holding your hand and embarrassing you in front of waitstaff?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched. "You already do that without the official title."

Greg snorted.

But Mycroft's voice softened. "You said I needed to earn my way back in. Let me start there."

Greg looked at him for a long moment, weighing it. Weighing him.

Then he leaned back in his chair, setting the teacup down gently.

"Alright," he said, his voice quieter now, but sincere. "You've got one shot to impress me, Holmes. Don't screw it up."

A small smile broke over Mycroft's face - genuine, and rare. "I wouldn't dare."

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, something between them clicked back into place - not perfect, not healed, but real.

And real was a damn good place to start again.

Greg's gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, then back to Mycroft. "So? You gonna plan this big, fancy date or just sit there looking smug about it?"

Mycroft straightened a little, clearly surprised. "You're agreeing to a date… now?"

Greg shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. "No time like the present, right? The shop's closed, I've got nothing in the fridge, and I'm wearing my least wrinkled jumper. Might as well make the most of it."

Mycroft's expression shifted. Something warm flickering behind the careful lines of his face.

"I know a place," he said softly. "Quiet. Not far. No reservations needed."

Greg smirked. "See? Already impressing me."

Mycroft stood and reached for his coat, then glanced over his shoulder. "Come on, then. Let's see if I can impress you even more."

Greg chuckled, grabbed his own jacket.

They stepped out into the cool evening air, the familiar hush of Covent Garden settling around them like a soft blanket. The streetlamps flickered to life as they walked in easy silence down the road.

Waiting, just past the corner, was a sleek black car. A driver stood beside it, leaning casually against the door like he'd never left.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "You kept him waiting all this time?"

Mycroft gave a faint smirk. "He's used to it."

The driver straightened at their approach and wordlessly opened the back door.

Mycroft turned to Greg, gesturing smoothly. "After you."

Greg blinked but didn't argue, slipping inside. The leather was warm, the car already perfectly comfortable, and for a second he just sat there, watching Mycroft settle in beside him.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked from the front, his tone polite but efficient.

"Marlow's," Mycroft replied.

Greg tilted his head. "Never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have," Mycroft said with a faint smile. "It doesn't advertise. No sign out front. Reservations by invitation only."

Greg's brows lifted. "Of course it is."

"I thought it appropriate," Mycroft added, a little too innocently. "Private booths, low lighting, excellent food, and a discreet staff who won't bat an eye if I argue with the menu."

Greg chuckled under his breath. "Romantic and secretive. On brand."

Mycroft glanced over, eyes soft but steady. "I told you I wouldn't waste my shot."

Greg didn't reply right away. Just looked out the window as the city passed by, then glanced back at him.

"Then don't."

And for the rest of the ride, they didn't need words.

The car pulled up outside a nondescript building on a quiet side street. No sign, no flashy entrance, just a polished black door flanked by two old gas-style lanterns and a single brass knocker.

Greg stepped out and looked around. "Are you sure this is the place? Looks more like a private club."

Mycroft didn't even pause. "That's the idea."

He strode forward and pushed open the door, holding it for Greg, who followed - hesitant, but curious.

Inside, it was a different world entirely.

Low lighting pooled in golden halos over each table. Dark wood, velvet chairs, and candlelight gave everything a warm, intimate glow. There was no music - just the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of fine cutlery.

The air smelled like good wine, grilled meat, and something just a little expensive.

Greg paused just inside the threshold, instantly aware of how soft his jumper felt compared to the sharp suits and evening wear that surrounded them.

He leaned in slightly toward Mycroft. "Bit overdressed for me, aren't they?"

Mycroft's lips twitched. "Not at all. You wear it well."

Greg opened his mouth to retort, but then his eyes scanned the room and stopped.

Was that… a Cabinet Minister two tables away? And… wasn't that one of the forwards from West Ham sipping from an etched glass?

He blinked. "I swear I just made eye contact with a guy who headlined Glastonbury last summer."

"You probably did," Mycroft said smoothly. "Discretion is part of the appeal."

A sharply dressed waiter in a perfectly tailored vest approached with a warm smile and greeted Mycroft by name - first name, Greg noted - and gestured for them to follow. No menus, no fuss.

They were led to a corner booth, semi-enclosed by a curved partition, candlelight flickering gently across the table.

Greg slid in across from Mycroft, glancing around once more. "You bring all your lovers here?"

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, amused. "No. Just you."

And somehow, in a room full of powerful people and polished silver, Greg felt like he was exactly where he belonged.

As soon as they settled into the booth, the waiter returned. This time wordless, efficient, almost ghost-like in his movements.

He set down two crystal-clear glasses of water, then placed a cocktail in front of Greg: dark amber, with a single sphere of ice and a twist of orange peel resting perfectly atop.

In front of Mycroft, a short tumbler with what looked like whisky, neat - no flourish, no garnish.

Greg glanced down at the drink, then up at Mycroft. "You ordered without asking?"

"I made an educated guess," Mycroft said, folding his hands neatly in his lap. "You once said you liked your drinks 'strong, but not pretentious'. That's an old fashioned. Properly made."

Greg lifted the glass, sniffed it, and gave a small, reluctant nod. "You remembered."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "Of course I did."

Greg took a slow sip, the warmth of the bourbon spreading across his chest almost instantly. The drink was perfectly balanced and smooth.

As Greg set his glass back down, Mycroft leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table, fingertips gently pressed together in that familiar, deliberate way.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, his voice low and composed, "but I'd like to order for us."

Greg raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Bit bold of you."

"I thought it might be fitting," Mycroft replied smoothly. "You came here on faith. Let me handle the next step."

Greg considered him for a moment. The confidence in Mycroft's tone was softened by something else - an almost tentative look in his eyes, like this wasn't just about food, but about trust. About letting someone take the lead.

Greg shrugged, picking up his glass again. "Alright, then. Impress me."

Mycroft's lips curved, just slightly. "That's the plan."

With a subtle wave of his hand, the waiter returned as if summoned telepathically. Mycroft didn't ask for a menu, didn't pause. He listed off a quiet, confident string of choices. Fresh-caught fish with a miso glaze, seasonal vegetables with truffle oil, handmade gnocchi with saffron cream, and something decadent for dessert that Greg didn't quite catch but heard dark chocolate in the middle of.

When the waiter left, Greg leaned an elbow on the table and said, "You know if that all turns out amazing, I'm going to expect you to cook once in a while."

Mycroft gave him a dry look. "I'd sooner hire a private chef."

Greg smirked. "That sounds like a very expensive way of saying I can't cook."

"And an honest one."

Greg shook his head, but he was smiling.

Mycroft sat back slightly, his glass in hand, and let the silence stretch just long enough to be comfortable. Then, with a subtle shift of tone he broke it.

"I must admit," he said, "I wasn't entirely sure you'd say yes to this."

Greg lifted a brow over the rim of his glass. "To dinner?"

"To me," Mycroft clarified. "After everything."

Greg leaned back, arms loosely crossed. "You didn't exactly make it easy."

"I know," Mycroft said, his voice quiet. "But you did come. And that matters more than I can say."

There was a pause, and then, "I've been trying to remind myself what people do on proper dates. I assume asking about your day is standard protocol?"

Greg chuckled. "You could say that."

"Alright then," Mycroft said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock seriousness, "how was your day, Gregory?"

Greg snorted. "Busy. Cat's threatening to start a petition if I don't take a proper break soon. I caught Ollie trying to sneak two muffins into his school bag. And I had to talk a very distressed teenager out of buying Wuthering Heights for a ‘romantic gift'."

Mycroft blinked. "Dear god. Did you succeed?"

"Barely," Greg replied. "I swapped it out for Pride and Prejudice. Less emotionally violent."

"A wise substitution."

Greg smirked. "And you? What's a Wednesday like for the great Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft took a sip of his whisky before answering. "Today? Boring reports, briefings with people I'd rather see turned into pigeons, and dodging six veiled threats from a diplomat who thinks I don't know he's laundering money through a children's charity."

Greg shook his head with a wry smile. "And to think, I almost felt guilty for clocking out at seven."

"Don't," Mycroft said, and his voice dipped lower, softer. "You deserve your peace."

Greg looked at him, eyes lingering for just a moment too long and for once, Mycroft didn't look away.

Their food arrived in perfect timing. Plates arranged like artwork, steam rising in gentle curls, the scent of truffle and spice mingling with the soft hum of the restaurant.

As soon as Greg took the first bite, he let out a low, appreciative hum. "Okay. You've officially earned some points."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, taking a measured bite of his own. "Only some?"

Greg smirked. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Mycroft gave a quiet, amused exhale. "Noted."

And just like that, they began to ease back into it… into them. Not with declarations or hard conversations, but with something quieter. The familiar rhythm returned in the subtlest of ways - a shared glance across the flickering candlelight, the slow volley of teasing remarks, long pauses that weren't awkward, and the occasional dry retort that landed with the kind of comfort only time could build.

Greg, now halfway through his drink, smirked as he leaned across the table. "Had a customer come in yesterday trying to return 'A Little Life'. Said it had 'too many feelings'." He made air quotes with his fingers. "Apparently trauma isn't the vibe she was going for when she picked it up."

Mycroft gave a soft, knowing sound. "And did you offer her something cheerier? Perhaps a war memoir?"

Greg chuckled. "Nah. Gave her a discount on a cookbook and told her the only thing it'd make her cry over was the price of saffron."

Mycroft sipped his whisky, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You are by far the most emotionally complex bookseller I've ever met."

"And you're what? A walking MI6 file who hides feelings behind strategic tea consumption?" Greg shot back.

Mycroft lifted a brow. "Hardly hidden. I've merely refined my expressions to… efficient levels."

Greg snorted. "God, I missed this."

And there it was again - that shift. That moment when the ease wasn't just nostalgia. It was now. Earned. Fragile. True.

Mycroft, in turn, shared a story about a recent diplomatic visit. A French ambassador who had tried to curry favour by gifting Mycroft a rare bottle of whisky. "He smiled proudly when I unwrapped it," he said dryly, "only to admit moments later he didn't drink. Said he hoped I'd ‘have a taste and think of France.'"

Greg shook his head. "You do have that effect on people. Makes them give you expensive things they know nothing about."

"I haven't opened it," Mycroft added, eyes flicking up to Greg's. "Was saving it."

"For?"

There was a pause. Just long enough. Mycroft's gaze lingered. "I wasn't sure. But now… maybe for when things feel right again."

Greg didn't press, because in the spaces between the banter, in the casual brush of Mycroft's hand when they reached for their drinks at the same time, in the way Mycroft looked at him a second too long when he laughed, it was all there.

Apology. Hope. Want.

Dinner became more than a meal. It became a quiet agreement, unspoken but deeply understood. Not a full repair. Not yet. But the start of one.

And for both of them, it felt like the most honest thing they'd shared in weeks.

And as dessert arrived - dark chocolate mousse with sea salt and a dollop of something that could only be described as sinful - Greg leaned back in his chair, watching Mycroft carefully lift a spoonful with a precision that was far too elegant.

"This is ridiculous," Greg said, licking chocolate from his thumb. "This whole place is ridiculous."

"And yet," Mycroft replied, "you're still here."

Greg met his gaze across the flickering candlelight. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I am."

He set his glass aside and reached across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against Mycroft's.

Mycroft didn't pull away.

He let Greg's hand settle over his own, their fingers curling together with a quiet kind of ease, like they'd done it a hundred times before, even if they hadn't.

Greg's thumb moved in slow, absent circles along the back of Mycroft's hand as he asked, softly, "How's the arm?"

Mycroft glanced down at their joined hands before lifting his gaze again. "Better. Still stiff in the mornings. But the bruising's faded."

"And your wrist?"

"Healing," he said. "I've been more careful with it."

Greg gave him a look. "Careful as in you've actually been resting it, or careful as in you've just learned how to hide the wince better?"

A faint smile tugged at Mycroft's lips. "A bit of both."

Greg huffed under his breath, but there was no real scolding in his tone. Just concern. Familiar, steady, worn into every syllable. "I meant what I said. No more patching yourself up alone."

Mycroft met his eyes fully then. "And I meant it when I said I wouldn't ask for less than what you deserve."

Greg gave a small nod, his grip tightening just slightly.

They sat like that for a while - hands clasped, no more barriers between them. Just warmth, contact, and the slow, careful return to something neither of them was ready to name out loud.

But they were building it and this time, neither of them was walking away.

The quiet settled over them again, but this time it was different. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just… comfortable.

The kind of silence that held its own shape between them. The kind that didn't demand filling. They sat there, fingers still linked across the table, the last traces of chocolate and warmth lingering in the air.

Greg watched Mycroft from under his lashes - his posture relaxed for once, not perfectly poised, not performing. And something inside him softened.

After a long moment, Greg squeezed his hand gently. "You wanna come back to mine?"

Mycroft glanced up, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face - quick, and gone just as fast. But he didn't ask what Greg meant. Because he knew it was about being there. About not ending the night with another step between them.

He gave a slow nod. "Yes. I'd like that."

Greg smiled, small, but real. "Good."

Back at Greg's flat, the familiar comfort of home wrapped around them like a worn-in jumper - quiet, warm, lived-in.

Greg slipped off his coat and set it over the back of a chair, Mycroft doing the same with practiced grace. The silence between them wasn't heavy anymore - it was calm, easy. The kind that didn't need explaining.

Greg moved into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle, his motions automatic. Mycroft followed without a word, coming to stand beside him at the counter. He didn't say anything, didn't fill the space with idle conversation, but he was there, present, his shoulder close enough to brush Greg's.

It was a quiet kind of intimacy. Just the sound of the kettle beginning to hum and the subtle shifts of two people who'd found a tentative rhythm again.

Greg glanced at him, watching the way the soft kitchen light caught in Mycroft's hair, the subtle line of tension still held in his shoulders - even now, even after everything.

And he couldn't help it.

He reached out, slow and sure, wrapping his arm around Mycroft's waist and drawing him in.

Mycroft didn't resist. He let himself be pulled close, resting lightly against Greg's side.

Greg leaned in and pressed a kiss - gentle, steady - to the corner of Mycroft's mouth, then one more just below his jaw.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just something soft. Something true.

Mycroft turned toward him slightly, one hand resting on Greg's chest, and let his eyes close for a moment.

Greg barely had time to register the shift in Mycroft's expression - eyes darker now, more focused. He reached up, fingers curling lightly around the fabric of Greg's jumper, anchoring himself.

And then he kissed him.

Not cautiously. Not carefully.

This was different - deeper, fuller, real. A kiss that didn't ask for permission but gave everything in return. Greg responded without hesitation, his hand sliding further around Mycroft's waist, the other rising to rest against the back of his neck, pulling him in closer.

Their bodies fit together with the kind of familiarity that came from something more than heat. It was want, yes but it was layered. With memory. With forgiveness. With something like hope.

Mycroft's hand found Greg's jaw, steady and sure, guiding the kiss deeper as if he'd been waiting to mean it like this.

Greg exhaled against his lips, fingers tightening just slightly, grounding them both.

Neither of them spoke. There was no need.

For the first time in what felt like too long, they weren't thinking. They weren't running. They were here - together, wrapped in warmth, and finally letting go of everything they'd been holding back.

Greg pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against Mycroft's, their noses brushing as he tried to gather the pieces of himself that had scattered somewhere between the kitchen counter and that kiss.

"I didn't want to give in to you this easily," he murmured, voice low, strained with honesty.

Mycroft's breath was still unsteady, his eyes flicking open to meet Greg's. "I'm not asking for easy."

Greg let out a quiet, breathless laugh, the heat of it ghosting over Mycroft's lips. "You're not asking at all. That's the problem."

Mycroft's hand slid gently down Greg's side, anchoring him. "Then I will," he said, voice softer than usual, but steady. "Do you want me?"

Greg's grip on his waist tightened, restraint hanging by a thread. "I want to still be mad at you," he admitted. "I want to keep making you work for this."

Mycroft nodded slightly, not flinching. "You have every right to."

"But," Greg went on, and his voice dropped into something rougher, rawer, "you're making it really fucking hard."

Mycroft's lips curved into the faintest smile. "So I've been told."

Greg chuckled and kissed him again - harder this time, frustration and desire melting together. His hands slid under Mycroft's jacket, splaying over his back, pressing their bodies closer until there was no space left between them.

He pulled back again, breath ragged. "I want to fuck you."

Mycroft's gaze didn't waver. "Then do it."

And Greg didn't need any more permission than that.

He took Mycroft's hand, fingers lacing together naturally, and silently led him through the familiar halls of the flat. The bedroom was dimly lit, the quiet from the city outside settling into the stillness between them.

No more masks. No more power plays. Just two people finding their way back to each other, step by tentative step.

At the edge of the mattress, they paused. Greg searched his face in the low lamplight. His expression, the softness in his eyes, the almost imperceptible trembling in his breath. "You sure?" Greg asked, his voice low, roughened by emotion. "I don't want to… push."

Mycroft's hand came up to rest gently against Greg's chest. "You're not. I want this. I want you."

That was all Greg needed.

He leaned in, catching Mycroft's mouth in a kiss - firm, steady, then slow and melting as Mycroft relaxed into it. Their mouths moved in sync, lips parting to deepen the kiss as hands began to roam, tentative at first, then more confidently.

Greg tugged at Mycroft's shirt, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric to skim over bare skin. Mycroft exhaled softly into the kiss, and the sound made Greg's stomach flip. He pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You're allowed to make noise, you know."

Mycroft gave a breathy laugh. "Is that so?"

"I love the noises you make," Greg murmured, pressing another kiss to the edge of his jaw, then lower, to the hollow of his throat. "It's bloody hot."

Piece by piece, they undressed each other. Greg's hands worked at the buttons of Mycroft's shirt with reverence, each one undone like peeling back armour. Mycroft's fingers moved with equal care, sliding under the hem of Greg's jumper, then over the curve of his back as the fabric was discarded.

Their undershirts followed, pants, socks - until there was nothing between them but skin and the heat building between their bodies.

Greg pushed the sheets back and gently coaxed Mycroft to lie down. Mycroft did, watching him with a gaze that was still too guarded around the edges but slowly giving way to something rawer - something real.

Greg climbed in beside him, their legs tangling under the blanket, the warmth of the bed and their bodies radiating in the quiet.

He kissed him deeper now. Mycroft gasped softly, fingers curling into Greg's back. Greg pressed closer, sliding a hand over Mycroft's hip, up his side, mapping him inch by inch.

"You're so bloody beautiful," Greg whispered against his neck, before kissing along his throat, tracing the faint line of his collarbone. Mycroft's breath caught, and he arched slightly into the touch.

"Gregory…" Mycroft murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Greg pulled back, his breath shallow but steady. "Still alright?"

Mycroft nodded. "More than."

Their movements grew bolder, more fluid and less hesitant, like a memory being retraced - not with precision, but with feeling. The air around them was thick with warmth, with breath, with the quiet friction of skin on skin and the weight of everything left unsaid finally beginning to lift.

Mycroft's hands, once tentative, grew more sure. One threaded into Greg's hair, fingertips dragging lightly at the base of his neck, the other moving slowly across Greg's back, over the planes of his ribs, pausing at the dip of his spine. Each touch spoke volumes—unspoken apologies, remembered longing, cautious permission.

Greg groaned low in his throat when Mycroft's lips grazed just below his jaw, the scrape of stubble and soft breath drawing a shiver up his spine. He pressed closer, hands braced on either side of Mycroft's body as they moved together in sync, like they'd never lost their rhythm, only misplaced it.

Still, somewhere in the haze of touch and sensation, Greg slowed.

He pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing his fingers gently across Mycroft's wrist, then ghosting over the side of his arm. "Tell me if I'm hurting you," he murmured, breathless, eyes searching. "I mean it. Say something."

Mycroft looked up at him, pupils blown, but gaze steady. "You're not."

Greg's brow furrowed slightly, still not convinced. "You've got a bloody track record for lying about pain, so forgive me if I'm not taking your word blindly."

That earned a quiet huff of laughter from Mycroft. "Then consider this an exception. You're not hurting me, Gregory."

He leaned up slightly, lips brushing the shell of Greg's ear as he added, voice silk-smooth, "If anything, you're being far too gentle."

Greg let out a breathless laugh, his pulse skipping. "Is that a challenge?"

Mycroft's fingers curled just a little tighter into Greg's hair. "It's a suggestion," he purred, "from someone who's very much enjoying being reminded he's alive."

Greg stared at him for a beat longer, then bent down to kiss him deep and slow, a thank-you and a promise all in one.

They continued, moving in a rhythm that felt like rediscovery. No rush. No fear. Just two bodies learning each other again, through the arch of a back, the catch of a breath, the whispered "yes" and "don't stop" and "just like that" between them.

Each sound was a thread, stitching trust back into place.

When they finally collapsed into the pillows, skin damp, breath laboured and tangled together, Greg rolled to his side and pressed his forehead to Mycroft's.

Neither spoke at first.

Then Greg, voice hoarse, murmured, "I didn't expect this to feel so much like home."

Mycroft, still catching his breath, let out a soft, unguarded sound that might've been a laugh or something closer to a sigh. "You are a home to me Gregory."

And with their hands still joined, they drifted into quiet, steady stillness - the kind that didn't need fixing, only keeping.

Chapter Text

In the weeks that followed, Mycroft did what few would've expected from a man so famously composed and impenetrable - he made an effort.

A real one.

Not grand gestures or carefully choreographed apologies. But the quiet, consistent kind. The kind that mattered.

He showed up at Novel Grounds like clockwork again. Not just at 4 p.m. anymore, but sometimes earlier, sometimes with no laptop in sight. Some days he helped Greg carry boxes in from deliveries. Other days, he'd pick up two teas from the corner shop without being asked and sit with Greg during a lull, listening to him vent about the chaos of the morning rush or a customer who insisted eBooks were the future.

He didn't just stay for Greg's music in the evenings - he asked about the songs. Remembered which ones Greg had written himself. One night, after everyone had gone and Greg was sweeping the floor, Mycroft quietly picked up the broom and helped without a word.

He opened up too - slowly, carefully. Letting Greg in piece by piece. Sharing stories from his childhood, admitting fears he'd never named aloud before, letting silence hang between them when the words weren't ready - but never using it as a wall again.

"When I was nine," he said, voice low, "I broke my arm falling from a tree. I lied about how it happened. I told my parents I tripped in the garden."

Greg glanced at him. "Why lie?"

"They told me I was too cautious. That I lacked imagination. I wanted to prove them wrong."

Greg snorted gently. "So you climbed a bloody tree?"

Mycroft gave a faint smile. "The highest one I could find."

"And you fell?"

"Immediately."

Greg laughed softly, tucking an arm more securely around him. "You've always been dramatic."

"Calculating," Mycroft corrected. Then, quieter, "But I suppose even then, I was trying to be something I wasn't."

Greg didn't say anything for a long moment, then murmured, "You don't have to do that with me. Be anything but you."

Mycroft turned his face into Greg's shoulder. "I know. That's what frightens me the most."

Greg kissed the top of his head, holding him closer. "Good. Means we're getting somewhere."

At night, when Greg stayed over at his flat - or when Mycroft slept curled into him at Greg's - they talked. About the past. About them. Sometimes about nothing at all.

The quiet hours became a space where words weren't weighed or measured. Where the walls were low enough for honesty.

One night, as they lay tangled under Greg's duvet, the city humming faintly beyond the windows, Greg brushed his fingers through Mycroft's hair and asked, voice low and rough, "Why didn't you tell me sooner? About how much you were hurting?"

Mycroft shifted slightly against him, his breath warming Greg's collarbone. For a moment, Greg thought he wouldn't answer.

Then, softly, "Because I didn't want you to see me like that. Weak. Unravelling."

Greg huffed a quiet breath, carding his fingers through his hair again. "You're not weak, Mycroft. You're human. There's a bloody difference."

Mycroft was silent for a beat, then murmured, "I know that now. Because of you."

Another night, half-asleep and lazy in the half-dark, Greg had chuckled and asked, "You ever regret dragging yourself into my café that first time?"

Mycroft's lips brushed his shoulder as he murmured back, "Regret? No. Fear? Constant."

Greg laughed under his breath, tightened his arm around him. "Should've been afraid of the muffins. Not me."

"You are infinitely more dangerous than muffins," Mycroft said, deadpan.

"Flatterer."

And when Greg asked questions - hard ones - Mycroft answered. Maybe not always immediately. Maybe not without hesitation. But he answered. Every time.

And with every word, every quiet confession, the distance between them closed a little more.

One afternoon, as they were closing up the shop, Greg glanced across the counter where Mycroft stood, sleeves rolled up, counting coins from the tip jar with quiet amusement.

"You really are trying," Greg said, almost more to himself than to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked up, his expression soft. "It's not trying, Greg. It's what I should've been doing all along."

Greg didn't reply at first. Just watched him.

Then he walked over, leaned in, and kissed him - light and sure.

He hadn't said I forgive you yet. But in that moment, with Mycroft's hand finding his without hesitation, he didn't need to.

They were writing a new chapter - together.

Greg was just about to suggest to get their favourite Chinese take away for dinner when Cat bustled out of the backroom, apron half-off and a knowing glint in her eye.

She planted her hands on her hips and declared, "Right, you two lovebirds. You're coming over for dinner tonight."

Greg blinked. "Wait, what?"

"No arguments," she said, waving a hand. "Tom's making lasagna, the twins are desperate to show off their terrible card tricks, and frankly, it's time for an official introduction to the Lestrades since you, Mycroft Holmes, are apparently Greg's boyfriend now."

Greg nearly choked.

Mycroft blinked, straightening his posture ever so slightly, though his expression remained remarkably composed. Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed any reaction.

Greg opened his mouth, then closed it again, utterly useless for a second.

Cat smirked, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Oh, what, no one's going to deny it? Didn't think so. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."

And with that, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the backroom again, leaving an almost stunned silence hanging between Greg and Mycroft.

Greg cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well. That's one way to make it official."

Mycroft hummed. "It seems we've been properly categorized."

Greg let out a helpless laugh, shaking his head. "You alright with that?"

Mycroft met his gaze, something softer glinting in his eyes. "If you are, Gregory… then so am I."

And somehow, hearing it said out loud, even by someone else, felt exactly right.

That warmth lingered between them all the way to Cat and Tom's flat. Greg wasn't sure if it was the easy way Mycroft's hand brushed against his in the cab, or the occasional glances they exchanged - quiet, knowing - but whatever it was, it settled something deep inside him.

When they reached the door, Greg barely had time to knock before it was yanked open.

Tom stood there, towering as ever, wearing a "Kiss the Cook" apron that was already dusted with flour. His grin was wide and wicked.

"Well, look who finally decided to make it official," Tom said loudly, without preamble. "Come on in, lads. We've got a table full of food and two monsters pretending to be magicians who've been asking if 'uncle Greg's boyfriend' was coming."

Greg groaned under his breath, shooting Mycroft an apologetic look as Tom clapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him into the entryway.

Mycroft, to his credit, barely flinched. He simply inclined his head politely. "Thank you for the invitation."

Tom gave him a hearty wink. "Any man who can survive Cat's interrogation and stick by Greg's side deserves a proper meal."

Greg muttered something about traitorous family members under his breath as they stepped inside, the smell of baked cheese and tomato sauce filling the cozy flat.

And as Mycroft helped Greg out of his coat, fingers brushing briefly over his wrist, he leaned close enough to murmur, "It's oddly charming. Your chaos."

Greg snorted quietly, bumping their shoulders together. "Buckle up, Holmes. You haven't seen anything yet."

They barely made it two steps into the living room before they were ambushed.

Evie and Ollie came barrelling around the corner, each wielding a deck of oversized playing cards and wearing crooked magician's hats that looked like they'd seen better days.

"Greg!" Evie cried. "You have to see our new tricks!"

"And is this him?" Ollie asked, wide-eyed as he skidded to a halt in front of Mycroft, craning his neck up to look at him properly. "The spy?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in quiet amusement, glancing sidelong at Greg.

Greg sighed dramatically. "I see the rumours have spread."

Ollie nodded seriously. "Mum said you were dating a very important person. She said he's probably a spy and that's why he always wears suits."

Evie tugged at Mycroft's sleeve excitedly. "Is it true? Are you a real spy? Like James Bond but without the silly cars?"

Mycroft, ever composed, bent slightly at the waist to meet their eager gazes, his voice dropping into that calm, serious tone he reserved for delicate diplomacy and apparently now for Lestrade children interrogations.

"I'm afraid I'm rather dull compared to James Bond," he said solemnly. "No gadgets. No glamorous car chases. And I prefer my suits without bloodstains, if possible."

The twins looked mildly disappointed.

"But," Mycroft continued, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, "I do know a few secrets."

Their faces lit up immediately. "Tell us one!" Evie demanded. "A secret!" Ollie echoed, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Greg crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway, grinning. "Careful. If you tell them anything, they'll blackmail you for sweets by the end of the night."

Mycroft gave a small, theatrical sigh. "Very well. A small one." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice dramatically. "The real secret to being a good spy… is always knowing where the biscuits are hidden."

Ollie gasped.

Evie looked scandalized. "Mum does hide the biscuits!"

Tom barked a laugh from the kitchen, shouting, "Told you he's dangerous!"

Greg just shook his head, beaming as he watched the twins practically vibrate with excitement.

In a matter of minutes, they dragged Mycroft into their chaotic world, insisting he pick a card, hide a coin, and sit through an increasingly tangled series of magic tricks involving suspicious sleight-of-hand and many, many dropped props.

And to Greg's utter delight, Mycroft stayed. Patient, polite and maybe even a little enchanted by the chaos he'd willingly stepped into.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't polished. But standing there in the warm, cluttered chaos of the Lestrade home, watching Mycroft laugh quietly at Ollie's disastrous card trick, Greg knew it was real and it was theirs.

By the time Cat called them all to the table, the twins had reluctantly given up their magic show - after securing a promise from Mycroft to 'help them make up secret spy tricks' later - and the scent of garlic, rich tomato sauce, and melted cheese had filled every corner of the flat.

Dinner was a crowded, cheerful affair.

Greg ended up squashed between Tom and Mycroft at the big, slightly battered oak table, the twins opposite them already arguing over who got the biggest slice of lasagna.

As plates were passed around and glasses filled, Tom leaned back in his chair and gave Mycroft a look that was half-curious, half-challenging - the classic I-like-you-but-I'm-watching-you expression Greg knew all too well.

"So, Mycroft," Tom said casually, slicing into his lasagna. "Greg tells me you're in government."

Greg choked slightly on his water, and Mycroft, unfazed as always, simply nodded. "In a manner of speaking," he said smoothly. "Consultancy. Strategic operations. That sort of thing."

Tom grinned. "Sounds fancy. What's that actually mean?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched. "It means I spend a great deal of time in meetings and occasionally prevent national disasters."

Tom barked a laugh. "You say it like it's boring. You're telling me sitting in a room with people shouting about international crises doesn't get your blood pumping?"

"Not particularly," Mycroft said dryly. "It tends to make one crave stronger tea."

Cat smirked from across the table. "Stronger than Greg's?"

Greg raised his hands. "Oi. My tea's fine. He's just picky."

"Selective," Mycroft corrected, giving Greg a small, conspiratorial glance that made Cat raise her eyebrows with interest.

Tom chuckled, taking another bite. "So what's the weirdest thing you've seen doing… whatever it is you do?"

Mycroft paused, considering. "There was an ambassador who attempted to smuggle rare parrots through Heathrow under the pretense of 'diplomatic luggage'. It caused something of a…" he gave a tiny smile, "feathered incident."

Greg let out a bark of laughter. "You're kidding."

"I am not," Mycroft said solemnly.

Even the twins, half-listening as they battled for the last breadstick, started giggling.

Tom shook his head, clearly impressed. "You're full of surprises, mate. I'll give you that."

"And discretion," Mycroft added with mock severity, which only made Greg nudge him under the table with his knee.

They kept talking easily after that, trading small stories, half-teasing questions, and more laughter than Greg could remember hearing around that table in months.

It wasn't an interrogation. It wasn't a test. It was a welcome. And Mycroft, to everyone's quiet amazement - including, maybe, his own - fit right in.

After dinner, the table was a cheerful mess of empty plates, crumpled napkins, and a few lingering bread crumbs the twins had somehow managed to scatter halfway across the room.

Cat shooed the kids off toward the living room, and before Mycroft could even protest, Evie and Ollie tugged him by the hands, demanding that he tell them a real spy story.

Greg caught Mycroft's dry, faintly alarmed look as he was pulled away, and he couldn't help but chuckle as he stood and gathered a few plates.

"Good luck," he called after him.

Mycroft gave him a long-suffering look over his shoulder, but allowed himself to be led into the living room, where the twins immediately plopped onto the floor, waiting expectantly.

Greg turned to Tom, who was already stacking the remaining dishes and carrying them to the sink. Greg followed, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder.

They worked in easy rhythm - Tom rinsing, Greg drying - but the silence stretched just long enough that Greg knew something was coming.

Sure enough, as Tom passed him a heavy plate, he said, casually, "You know, he's not what I expected."

Greg arched an eyebrow. "Yeah? What were you expecting?"

Tom shrugged, grinning. "Some stiff, stuck-up posh bloke who thought we were beneath him."

Greg barked a laugh. "You thought I'd date someone like that?"

"Not thought," Tom said, "feared. Big difference."

Greg shook his head, snorting under his breath as he wiped down a plate.

Tom continued, his voice a little softer, "But he's alright. Little awkward. Smart as hell. Quietly funny, once you get past the whole 'I could probably have you arrested for blinking wrong' vibe."

Greg huffed a laugh, feeling warmth bloom in his chest. "Yeah. He's alright."

Tom passed him another dish, but his hand lingered for a second. "And he's looking at you like he's bloody grateful every time you walk into the room."

Greg's throat tightened unexpectedly.

"He's a good one, Greg," Tom said simply. "Hold onto him."

Greg nodded, swallowing thickly, then smiled, small but real. "Yeah. I plan to."

Out in the living room, he could hear Mycroft's low voice weaving some absurd spy tale about a secret mission involving stolen muffins and a high-speed tricycle chase.

Greg laughed quietly to himself and shook his head. He was definitely going to hold onto him.

After the last of the dishes were done and wiped down, Greg and Tom wandered back into the living room, where the scent of fresh tea and buttery biscuits had already filled the air.

Cat had set out a tray on the coffee table - an assortment of mugs, a teapot cozy still snug around the pot, and a generous plate of chocolate digestives, shortbread, and jammy dodgers. She gave them both a look that dared them to complain about more food.

Greg grinned and dropped onto the sofa beside Mycroft, who was perched in an armchair, Evie half-asleep against his side and Ollie sprawled across the carpet like he'd fought in an actual spy mission.

"Good story?" Greg asked, reaching for a biscuit.

Mycroft gave him a faintly amused look. "Apparently it involved a penguin, a secret code hidden in a sandwich, and a thrilling escape involving a shopping trolley."

Greg laughed. "You're wasted in government. You should write children's books."

"I'll leave the fiction to those better suited for it," Mycroft said dryly, accepting a mug of tea from Cat with a polite nod.

They all settled in, passing the plate of biscuits around while the twins, exhausted from excitement and too much lasagna, curled up and started dozing. Cat sat cross-legged on the armchair opposite, flipping through a magazine, while Tom tuned the radio to some low-volume classic rock.

Greg sipped his tea, the warmth spreading through him, and leaned his shoulder slightly into Mycroft's.

No grand speeches. No heavy conversations.

Just mugs clinking softly, the occasional soft chuckle, and the quiet comfort of people who had, without much ceremony, folded Mycroft into their little family.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't dramatic. It was real.

Later that night, after the twins had been tucked into bed and the laughter around the flat faded into a warm, lingering hum, Greg and Mycroft called a cab to take them back toward Covent Garden.

The ride was quiet but comfortable. Mycroft sat close enough that their shoulders brushed with each turn of the car. The driver didn't make conversation, and neither of them needed to fill the silence. It was the kind of stillness that felt earned.

When the cab pulled up outside Novel Grounds, Greg hopped out first, pulling his coat tighter around himself against the sharp chill in the air. Mycroft followed, standing beside him on the narrow pavement, his own coat buttoned neatly up, his breath clouding faintly in the cold.

The cab idled at the curb, waiting to take Mycroft the rest of the way home.

They stood there a moment longer than necessary, neither speaking, neither quite ready for the night to end.

Mycroft cleared his throat quietly, looking at Greg, and for once, there was no reserve behind his eyes.

"I'm grateful," he said, voice low but certain. "For you. For tonight."

Greg tilted his head, smiling a little. "You handled yourself pretty well. Considering you were attacked by magic tricks and Tom."

Mycroft gave a faint chuckle, but then his expression turned serious again.

"No," he said, softer. "I mean it. Your family welcomed me without hesitation. I don't take that lightly. I... I don't think I've ever truly had that before."

Greg's chest tightened at the honesty in his voice. He stepped a little closer, close enough that their hands brushed.

"You're part of it now," Greg said, shrugging like it was the simplest thing in the world. "No going back."

Mycroft's lips curved into the smallest, most genuine smile Greg had ever seen from him.

"I wouldn't want to."

They stood there for a moment longer, neither willing to move just yet, until the cab driver gave a polite cough from behind the wheel.

Mycroft glanced over, then back at Greg. "I have an early flight tomorrow. Some tedious diplomatic function in Geneva."

Greg smirked. "You'll survive. Barely."

"I'll text you when I land," Mycroft promised, stepping back toward the cab.

Greg nodded. "Good. I'll expect updates. Preferably with less penguin espionage this time."

Mycroft smirked faintly, reached out, and brushed his gloved fingers briefly over Greg's hand. But instead of immediately pulling away toward the cab, he hesitated, holding Greg's gaze.

And in a voice low enough that only Greg could hear, he said, almost matter-of-factly, but entirely sincere, "I love you, Gregory. In my own… complicated way."

Greg's breath caught, the cold forgotten entirely.

He opened his mouth, maybe to reply, maybe just to stand there like an idiot, but Mycroft was already stepping back, slipping into the cab with a final, lingering glance.

The door clicked shut. And then he was gone, the cab pulling away into the London night.

Greg stood frozen on the pavement for a moment longer, heart hammering against his ribs, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets against the chill.

And even though the night was sharp and biting, he felt nothing but warmth, blooming steady and fierce in his chest.

He pulled out his phone, thumbs hesitating over the screen before he started typing, no overthinking, no drafts, just simple, honest words.

{ You're a bloody disaster sometimes, Holmes. But you're my disaster now xxx }

He stared at it for a heartbeat, smiling softly to himself, then added,

{ I love you too. In my very straightforward, extremely patient, and sometimes exasperated way. Safe flight xxx }

He hit send before he could second-guess it.

The message whooshed off into the cold night air, a small tether stretching between them even with hundreds of miles about to separate them.

Greg tucked the phone back into his pocket and headed up the stairs to his flat above Novel Grounds, the faintest grin still tugging at his lips.

Because no matter where Mycroft's flight was taking him tomorrow. Greg knew exactly where his heart was staying.

And over the next few days, that feeling only grew stronger.

They kept in touch the way they always should have - easily, quietly, with the sort of small, constant messages that stitched their days together, even across the distance.

Friday, 9:14 AM

{ Don't let the diplomats bore you to death. If you fall asleep mid-negotiation, at least have the decency to blame jet lag xxx }

{ I never fall asleep. I occasionally feign unconsciousness for strategic purposes – M }

{ Impressive. Teach me sometime xxx }

Saturday, 7:52 PM

{ Started a new book. Found a Victorian murder mystery you'd probably hate. Half the characters faint dramatically every chapter xxx }

{ Sounds ghastly. Bring it home with you. I want to mock it properly – M }

Sunday, 1:27 PM

{ Just extracted myself from a luncheon with a man who pronounced 'diplomatic immunity' as if it were a cocktail – M }

Greg:
{ Sounds like you found my next drinking buddy xxx }

Mycroft:
{ Over my dead body – M }

Monday, 8:03 PM

{ Shop was slammed today. Cat says if you don't bring back pastries from wherever you're hiding, she's demoting you to 'regular customer' xxx }

{ Tragic. I suppose I must retrieve an offering to preserve my status – M }

{ Smart man xxx }

Some nights, Greg would fall asleep with his phone still in his hand, a final message from Mycroft glowing faintly on the screen - something about a book he'd spotted in a Geneva shop window, or a note that he'd seen something funny that reminded him of Greg.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing heavy. Just them.

And for the first time in a long time, Greg wasn't counting the days in distance.

He was counting them in something real. Something that was finally, finally theirs.

One evening, just as Greg was locking up the shop, his phone buzzed in his back pocket.

He fished it out, expecting another dry remark or a link to an obscure article Mycroft found amusing. But instead, he found something more serious waiting on the screen.

{ When I return, we need to talk. About the stolen file. About what happens next – M }

Greg stared at the message for a long moment, the cold key still in the lock behind him. The warmth he'd carried all week dipped, just slightly, replaced by the quiet weight of something unfinished.

Of course. They had always known this wasn't over.

Fingers tightening around the phone, Greg took a breath and replied.

{ Alright. When you're ready. I'll be here xxx }

There was a long pause before the typing bubble returned.

{ Thank you – M }

Greg locked the door, tucked the phone away, and exhaled into the chilled evening air. Whatever was coming, they'd face it together.

That evening, the day Mycroft returned from Geneva, Greg made his way to Mycroft's flat.

The city air was crisp, a damp chill settling over London as Greg climbed the familiar steps, rapping his knuckles lightly against the door instead of just walking in. He still wasn't sure why - habit, maybe. Or respect for whatever heavy thing was waiting between them.

The door opened almost immediately.

Mycroft stood there, looking tired but composed, the faint shadows under his eyes telling a different story. His tie was gone, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, the soft glow of the hallway light making him look - if possible - even more real.

"Gregory," he said, voice low, warm.

"Hey you," Greg replied, offering a small smile as he stepped inside.

Before he could say anything else, Mycroft reached out - hesitant for only a fraction of a second - then curled his fingers gently into the lapel of Greg's coat and tugged him forward.

Greg didn't resist.

Their lips met in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative, like reacquainting themselves after too many days apart. Mycroft's hand lingered against Greg's chest, grounding himself there, and Greg's fingers came up to brush lightly over the back of Mycroft's neck, deepening the kiss just slightly.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was steady. The kind of kiss that said, You're here. I'm here. We're alright.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, Mycroft gave him the faintest, almost shy smile, the kind he reserved for Greg alone. "Welcome back," Greg murmured, voice rougher than he intended.

The smell of something rich and comforting filled the flat - garlic, butter, maybe wine. In the kitchen, two plates were already set on the small dining table: pasta, by the looks of it, with a generous sprinkle of parmesan, and a bottle of wine breathing beside them.

They ate together in the gentle hush of the flat, the clink of cutlery and the occasional low murmur of conversation filling the spaces between bites.

Greg told him about the shop, about Cat's ongoing battle with the flower supplier, about how Ollie had started reading spy novels and insisted Greg must be part of MI5 now.

Mycroft listened, offering the occasional soft smile or dry remark, but Greg could feel the tension simmering beneath it all, the weight of the conversation they hadn't yet had.

They tiptoed around it. Neither mentioned the stolen file. Neither mentioned the danger that still lingered in the background of their lives.

Instead, Mycroft poured Greg another glass of wine and asked about a book he'd left on the nightstand. Greg, in turn, teased him about his disastrous attempt to organize his personal library by subject and author.

It was easy. Almost normal.

But under the warmth of the dinner, under the soft flicker of the candles Mycroft had lit, something heavy pressed between them.

They lingered at the table longer than necessary, swirling the last of their wine, picking at the remains of their meal, trading small jokes and half-smiles that felt just a little too fragile.

Greg leaned back in his chair, letting the quiet settle. He knew it was coming. Had been waiting for it since the second he walked through the door.

And sure enough, Mycroft's hand stilled around his wine glass, his shoulders shifting just slightly - squaring up like a man bracing for a storm.

He set the glass down carefully, eyes steady on Greg.

"It's over," Mycroft said, voice low but firm.

Greg blinked. "Over?"

Mycroft nodded. "The investigation. The threat. All of it."

Greg stared at him, heart thudding a little harder. "You're serious?"

"I am."

Greg leaned forward slowly. "Then start from the beginning. I want to know everything."

Mycroft folded his hands, settling into the precision that came so naturally to him, but tonight, there was no distance in his voice. No coldness. Just honesty.

"When we first found the breach in the secure systems, it led back, unexpectedly, to Novel Grounds. More specifically, to Arthur's old system of handling private orders. We initially believed someone inside the government was using innocent fronts like Arthur to smuggle information."

Greg's stomach twisted slightly, but he said nothing.

Mycroft continued. "Arthur was targeted because he was trustworthy. Discreet. He didn't ask too many questions about unusual requests. They planted classified documents disguised as 'rare book orders'. Most of the time, Arthur never even knew what he was handling."

Greg's throat tightened. "So he didn't, he wasn't…"

"No," Mycroft said firmly. "He wasn't complicit. He was manipulated."

Greg scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a shaky breath. "And the transaction in my name?"

Mycroft's jaw tightened. "They needed a scapegoat. Someone close enough to the business to be plausible but far enough removed to discredit if it all came crashing down. You were perfect. Young, no government clearance, a background in criminal justice, enough to look suspicious if twisted the right way."

Greg sat back, feeling the cold weight of it settle in his chest.

"So how'd you fix it?"

Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line before he answered. "We finished the trap we set. I leaked a fabricated order through the same channel, an enticing piece of fake intelligence attached to your name again."

Greg's eyes narrowed. "Risky."

"Necessary," Mycroft countered. "And it worked. We caught the courier intercepting the planted order before it ever reached the false address."

He hesitated, then added, voice softer, "They weren't just feeding information to a private party, Greg. It was a foreign intelligence operation. Well-funded. Carefully masked."

Greg whistled lowly. "Bloody hell."

"Indeed." Mycroft's mouth quirked in something that wasn't quite a smile. "But thanks to the interception, arrests have been made. Names have been turned over. And you-", he leaned forward slightly, something fierce and unyielding in his gaze, "are no longer tied to anything. Officially or otherwise."

Greg sat very still, processing that.

"No one will ever look twice at you," Mycroft said. "Your name is cleared. You're safe."

Greg let out a long, shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"And Arthur?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft's face softened. "We'll never know if he realized, in the end, what was happening around him. But I believe… he tried to get out. I believe that's why they came looking for something after he died."

Greg's throat ached with the weight of it.

"He wasn't a traitor," Greg said, almost to himself.

"No," Mycroft said, with absolute certainty. "He wasn't."

The silence that fell between them wasn't heavy anymore. It was full of something else. Relief. Sadness. Gratitude.

Greg leaned back, blowing out a breath. "So it's really over?"

"It's over," Mycroft said, voice steady.

Greg chuckled under his breath, a little wild, a little disbelieving. "You realize you could've just told me that without the whole secret agent drama?"

Mycroft gave a faint, weary smile. "I'm afraid subtlety is not always my forte where you're concerned."

Greg stared at him for a moment, heart pounding for a very different reason now.

Then, finally, finally, he leaned across the table, cupped Mycroft's cheek with one hand, and kissed him.

Slow, deep, and grateful.

When they pulled apart, Greg didn't move far. "You saved me," he said quietly.

"No," Mycroft corrected, just as softly. "You saved yourself. I just… made sure no one could take it away from you."

Greg smiled against his forehead.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, they weren't holding onto each other because they were afraid.

They were just holding on. Because neither of them had any intention of letting go.

They didn't say much after that. There wasn't a need for it.

Greg simply stood, tugging Mycroft gently to his feet by the front of his shirt, and led him toward the living room. The flat was quiet, only the faint buzz of the city outside filtering through the windows. The kind of quiet that came after the storm, when the adrenaline drained away, leaving only something steady behind.

Greg sank onto the sofa, pulling Mycroft down beside him. No barriers, no distance. Mycroft shifted closer without hesitation, tucking himself neatly into Greg's side, resting his head lightly against Greg's shoulder.

Greg looped an arm around him, holding him there. Not tight, not desperate. Just there. Solid. Sure. For a while, they sat in silence, listening to each other breathe.

Greg carded his fingers slowly through Mycroft's hair, feeling the way the other man gradually, almost imperceptibly, relaxed against him, like he was finally allowing himself to believe it was over.

"Feels strange," Greg said after a while, voice soft.

Mycroft stirred slightly. "What does?"

"Sitting here. No more secrets. No more running around worrying if the sky's about to fall." Greg huffed a faint laugh. "Almost feels wrong. Like we're getting away with something."

Mycroft lifted his head enough to meet his eyes. "Perhaps we are."

Greg smirked. "Don't let your bosses hear you say that."

"They can manage without me thinking the worst for one evening," Mycroft said lightly, but there was a deeper truth underneath it. A kind of exhaustion Greg recognized - the kind that only came when a man finally stopped fighting battles he hadn't realized he'd been carrying for too long.

Greg leaned down and kissed him - not out of hunger or need, but because he could. Because they both deserved it.

Mycroft responded immediately, fingers curling into Greg's jumper, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. Slow. Purposeful. A language all their own.

When they pulled apart, both breathing a little heavier, Greg rested their foreheads together.

"So what now?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Mycroft smiled - small, real, and utterly devastating. "Now," he said, "we live."

Greg closed his eyes, let the words settle into his bones like a promise. Because for the first time in longer than either of them could remember they could, together.

Chapter Text

The summer sun spilled through the tall front windows of Novel Grounds, turning the polished wood floors golden and making the dust motes dance like confetti. Outside, Covent Garden bustled. Tourists with ice creams, families weaving between buskers, and the low murmur of city heat thick in the air.

Inside Greg was driving everyone absolutely mad.

"No, no, no Cat, the almond croissants go on the left. It throws off the regulars if you switch it. And Tom, the supplier's invoice is in the second folder from the top, not the fourth. Don't mix the receipts again or I'll lose my mind, I swear to God-"

"Greg," Cat said sharply, not even looking up from the tray she was loading with pastries. "Go. Away."

"I'm not leaving for another hour."

"You've been pacing like a caffeinated squirrel for the last three," she shot back, turning to glare at him with one hand on her hip and flour streaked across her apron. "The shop will survive without you. I'm not about to burn it down just to spite you. Although… tempting."

Greg huffed, folding his arms. "I'm just making sure things are in order."

"You've labelled the tea jars twice, rearranged the book displays back to the way they were before you changed them, and printed an emergency rota with three backup contacts. We're in order. Possibly too much order."

Tom popped his head in from the backroom, holding a clipboard. "Also? You annotated the list of WiFi passwords. Annotated. With mood notes."

Greg flushed. "Look, people get shirty if they can't find the network, alright?"

"Mate," Tom said with a grin, "you're going on holiday, not to the moon."

It was then a deep, amused voice chimed in from the reading nook near the windows. "Though I imagine he's rehearsed contingency plans for both."

Greg spun around to find Mycroft standing exactly where he'd been for the last fifteen minutes. Quietly, elegantly, with the faintest trace of a smirk as he sipped his tea.

"You're not helping," Greg muttered, glaring.

"I believe I am," Mycroft said, stepping forward with the kind of unhurried grace Greg would never admit he found both irritating and attractive. "It is remarkably entertaining."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "You said you wanted me to relax."

"And I do," Mycroft said, gently taking the clipboard out of Greg's hands and setting it on the counter. "Which is why I'm intervening. Gregory, you've earned this."

Greg looked down, thumb flicking the edge of a coaster as he hesitated. "It's just… I haven't left the shop for more than a weekend since… well, since Arthur. A week's a long time."

Cat's voice softened behind him. "Greg, dear. We'll be fine. You need this. And not just because Mycroft's threatening to steal you away."

"Not threatening," Mycroft said mildly. "Merely executing."

Greg barked a reluctant laugh despite himself. "You're both unbearable."

Tom reappeared and tossed a pair of sunglasses onto the counter. "That's why we're the perfect team. Now bugger off, or I'm hiding your passport."

Greg finally allowed himself to stop. Really stop. He looked around the café. The scent of cinnamon buns still hanging in the air, the low murmur of the espresso machine, Cat arranging fresh scones with her usual ruthless efficiency, Tom checking the tills like he'd done it a hundred times before.

They'd be okay.

He turned to Mycroft, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. "You sure about this? Week in Provence with a cranky shopkeeper and your absurd tea preferences?"

Mycroft's lips curved slightly. "If I weren't, I wouldn't have booked the vineyard cottage with the soundproof windows and the king-size bed."

Greg's brows shot up. "Well. When you put it like that."

Cat gave an exaggerated cough and waved a tea towel. "Right, before this becomes a soap opera, can someone help me restock the milk fridge?"

Mycroft picked up Greg's duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, and held out a hand.

Greg hesitated, just for a beat. Then he took it.

The warmth of Mycroft's hand was steady. Certain. Like maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let go. Not of the shop, not forever, but just long enough to breathe somewhere with sun and sea and no responsibilities but deciding whether to nap or swim.

As they walked out together, Cat called after him, "Don't call. Don't text. Unless you're sending photos of French pastries I can recreate."

Greg turned, walking backward a few steps with a grin. "Only if they've got as much bite as you."

"Oi!" she shouted, laughing.

And just like that, Greg and Mycroft stepped into the summer sun, hand in hand. It was hot. It was ridiculous. And it was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The cottage sat at the edge of a sleepy Provencal village, nestled among rolling vineyards that shimmered in the golden light of early evening. The sea was visible in the distance, a glinting ribbon of deep blue beyond the hills, where the vines met the sky. The air smelled of ripe grapes, wild herbs, and salt carried in on the breeze, like the earth itself had exhaled in contentment. The sky was impossibly blue, not the soft grey of London skies Greg had grown used to, but something bolder, almost cinematic.

Greg stood at the open front door, his duffel bag forgotten at his feet, mouth slightly open.

"Bloody hell," he breathed.

Behind him, Mycroft set down his own luggage with his usual precision, though even he looked faintly pleased.

Greg stepped inside, slowly, reverently. The cottage was small, but not cramped. Whitewashed walls, warm wooden beams, and shelves lined with dusty cookbooks and mismatched ceramics. The kitchen was compact but charming, and when he opened the fridge, Greg actually laughed aloud.

"Mycroft. Did you stock this place?"

Mycroft leaned against the doorway, smug as anything. "I had it arranged. A well-prepared fridge is the first sign of civilization."

Greg pulled out a wedge of cheese the size of a small dog and stared at it like it had personally blessed him. "There's pâté. Actual wine. And is that... duck confit?"

"I thought you might prefer not to spend your holiday eating out of tins."

Greg turned, eyes wide with disbelief. "You're kind of terrifying. In the best way."

"I'm aware."

Through the glass doors at the back of the kitchen, sunlight poured in, drawing Greg toward the little stone terrace. The garden beyond was a tangle of rosemary, lavender, and lemon balm, with two wrought iron chairs sitting under a shady olive tree, waiting patiently like they'd always been meant for him and Mycroft.

Greg opened the door and stepped out, the heat kissing his skin immediately. "Alright," he said, looking around like a man sizing up a future he hadn't known he needed, "this might be the best bloody idea you've ever had."

He sat down in one of the chairs and gestured for Mycroft to join him. Mycroft, after only the slightest hesitation, did.

For a while, they didn't speak. Bees buzzed lazily in the garden. Somewhere down the hill, someone was playing guitar, the chords faint but warm. The quiet wrapped around them like a well-worn blanket.

Greg finally broke the silence. "I could get used to this."

"I intend for you to," Mycroft replied, without irony.

Greg glanced over, caught off guard by the simple certainty in his voice. "Do you, now?"

Mycroft nodded once. "I've found that I quite like this... rhythm. Quiet mornings. Proper tea. The company." A pause. "You."

Greg swallowed. For once, words didn't come easily.

He reached across the small table, brushing his fingers lightly against Mycroft's. "I was worried I'd never have this again. Not after Arthur. Not after… all of it."

"I know," Mycroft said. "But you do."

And just like that, something settled inside Greg. Not the way it had after Arthur's passing, a quiet, dutiful settling, but something warmer. Lighter. Like the click of a book closing after the final chapter, knowing it was a good one.

The sun dipped lower, casting everything in gold. Greg leaned back, watching Mycroft pour two glasses of wine with practiced grace. But Greg wasn't focused on the wine.

He was focused on the long line of Mycroft's neck, the way the light caught the fine hairs on his forearm, the way those sharp eyes had softened since they'd arrived.

When Mycroft handed him a glass, their fingers brushed and something in Greg snapped.

"To new chapters," Greg murmured, his voice husky. Then he leaned in, his lips just grazing Mycroft's ear. "But right now, I'm going to need you in that bed. Desperately."

Mycroft didn't flinch. Instead, he set his wine down untouched and turned to meet Greg's gaze, something dangerous and delighted flickering in his eyes. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Greg was already on his feet, dragging him inside by the hand. The door clicked shut behind them.

Clothes were shed in a trail down the narrow hall, kisses growing more reckless with every step. Mycroft's laugh - low, breathless, surprised - filled the space between them as Greg pressed him against the doorframe, hands mapping familiar curves with newfound hunger.

When they finally collapsed onto the bed - flushed, tangled, gasping - the fading light bathed the room in amber, and Greg realized he'd never wanted anything as badly as he wanted this.

Not just the heat. Not just the skin and sweat and the way Mycroft's mouth felt on his.

But him. All of him. And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel alone.

The sea lapped gently at the shore, its rhythm steady, soothing a lazy pulse in the sun-drenched afternoon.

Greg lay stretched out on a faded striped towel, his swim trunks scandalously rolled up high on his thighs, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and a smug little smirk curving his lips. His skin gleamed, not from sweat, but from a rather generous layer of coconut-scented sunscreen he'd applied with what Mycroft could only describe as relish.

"I'm working on the perfect tan," Greg announced, turning his face toward the sun like a worshipper at a shrine. "By the end of this trip, I want thighs so golden they get mistaken for a local delicacy."

From beneath the wide shade of their umbrella, Mycroft raised an unimpressed eyebrow over the rim of his book. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, unbuttoned just enough to suggest he might be enjoying the warmth, and loose navy swim shorts that had yet to touch seawater.

"You'll burn in five minutes and whine all night," he said flatly.

Greg cracked one eye open. "That's why you helped with the sunscreen, love. You missed a spot by the way. Might need you to fix that."

Mycroft didn't look up from his book. "That was deliberate."

Greg smirked. "Ah. And was the hickey on my hip deliberate too, or just collateral damage?"

Mycroft turned a page with regal indifference. "If I intended it to be discreet, you wouldn't have noticed it."

Greg let out a bark of laughter. "You're unbelievable. I look like I lost a fight with a very territorial octopus."

"An octopus who happens to be very fond of you."

Greg rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could grin at him properly. "You're fond of me, are you?"

Mycroft finally looked up, a slow, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Tragically."

Greg leaned closer, sunglasses sliding down his nose. "You know, if you're not careful, I might fall for you even harder."

"You already have," Mycroft said simply and went back to reading, but his smile lingered.

Greg lay back again, flushed from more than just the sun, grinning like a fool under the blazing Provençal sky. He shifted, stretching luxuriously, letting out a pleased sigh as he soaked up the sun. "God, this is heaven."

"You've said that three times in the last fifteen minutes."

"Well, it still is. Come on Holmes. Take your shirt off. Live a little. Let the French sun have a go at you."

Mycroft turned a page with surgical precision. "I prefer not to roast myself like a tourist on a budget airline."

"You're missing out."

"I'm comfortable."

Greg grinned. "You're smug."

"Content," Mycroft corrected. "There's a difference."

Greg let the silence stretch, the breeze teasing his hair, the distant sounds of children playing and gulls calling weaving through the golden afternoon.

Eventually, he reached into the beach bag beside him and pulled out a well-loved paperback. The cover sun-faded, the pages soft and slightly curled at the edges. He ran his fingers over the title, smiling faintly.

"I've been meaning to read this for over a year," he murmured.

Mycroft glanced over, curious. "What is it?"

Greg turned the book so he could see: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

"Arthur gave it to me," Greg said, voice softer now. "Last few days before he passed. Said it was one of his favourites, that it was about love, and stories, and rebuilding something after everything's fallen apart. Thought I'd get a kick out of it." He paused. "I meant to read it right after. But... I couldn't. Not then."

Mycroft said nothing, just watched him with that quiet attentiveness that always made Greg feel seen without pressure.

As he opened the cover, a folded piece of paper slipped free and fluttered onto his chest. Greg blinked, startled. He picked it up gently.

It was Arthur's handwriting.

Slowly, with fingers that had gone just slightly unsteady, Greg unfolded the paper. The ink had faded a little, but the words were unmistakably Arthur's.

"Greg,

If you're reading this, it means you've finally cracked open this book. I'm glad. I always knew you'd come to it when the time was right.

I wanted to tell you, one last time, how proud I am of you. Not for running the shop, though you've done that beautifully. But for carrying on with kindness, for loving people fiercely, for staying open even when the world tried to make you close.

Take love where it finds you. Trust your instincts. And don't let grief stop you from living a full, messy, beautiful life.

You were never alone. You never will be.

Love always,

Uncle A."

Greg's breath caught, and for a moment, the sound of the sea receded, the world narrowing to just that paper in his hands.

Mycroft said nothing, just moved a little closer beneath the shade, one hand resting lightly over Greg's.

Greg looked up, eyes filled with tears, but steady now.

"I think I'm ready," he whispered. "For all of it."

Mycroft's thumb brushed his knuckles and nodded.

And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, Greg finally turned to the first page and began to read. Beside him, Mycroft also read in silence, the two of them wrapped in sea breeze, sunlight, and the weightless grace of stories passed down through love.

A letter. A legacy.

A new chapter unfolding.

Together.