WHO WILL DROP EVERYTHING INCLUDING THE CREDIT FOR AN IMPORTANT CASE AND BRING AN ENTIRE SQUAD OF POLICE AND A FUCKING HELICOPTER TO SAVE HIM AT THE MERE BECK AND CALL OF A TEXT
GREG LESTRADE WHO PROBABLY SAT THERE AND HELPED HIM WRITE HIS BEST MAN SPEECH
SHOUT OUT TO GREG LESTRADE FOR BEING AN AMAZING FRIEND.
“Stay still and let me take care of you,” Greg growled and pushed Mycroft to sit on the edge of the bed.
Mycroft protested, “I’m fine, Greg! It’s just a scratch, stop making such a big deal about it, aouch!”
Greg had just poked at the spot where Mycroft’s shirt was stained with blood and raised an eyebrow at Mycroft’s reaction, “It’s just a scratch, right? Show me.”
Mycroft began to protest and Greg interrupted him, “Right now!”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft began to lift his shirt and couldn’t hold back a wince as the shirt peeled away from the wound.
“Mycroft, you’ve got to be kidding me, this is more than a scratch! Don’t move!”
Greg rushed to the bathroom and returned with a wound care kit.
“What the hell happened? And don’t lie to me, okay?”
While Greg prepared the material to treat the wound, Mycroft told him how a hitman had infiltrated a diplomatic meeting he was attending.
“Let’s just say that I found myself in the path of one of his bullets.
Greg didn’t let Mycroft’s deflective tone faze him and said coldly, "You were lucky, a few inches to the right and you’d probably be dead.” Before applying a disinfectant pad, he continued, “This is going to hurt."
Mycroft could not hold back a gasp of pain as Greg applied the compress. He instinctively grabbed Greg’s forearm, digging his nails into their flesh. Once the brief moment of pain passed, he released Greg’s arm from his grip.
His gaze fell on Greg’s tense face as he continued to tend to his wound.
Without a word, he got up and went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and a painkiller that he handed to Mycroft, still without a word.
Once the glass was empty, Mycroft put it on the nightstand and pulled Greg towards him, "Greg? Talk to me.”
Greg muttered something through his teeth that Mycroft didn’t understand.
He pulled him to sit next to him and said softly, “Can you repeat that please.”
Greg looked up at him and said more distinctly, “I almost lost you,” his voice breaking at the end of his sentence.
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft replied.
Greg shook his head, “You can’t help it, we both have professions that put us in danger more than twice. We both live with it, it’s just that sometimes, like today, I’m confronted with what it really means.”
Mycroft nodded and moved back until he was sitting against the headboard and then reached out his arm to Greg.
Greg snuggled up to Mycroft, resting his head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart, as if to feel that he was alive and well, safe and sound with him.
After a moment, Greg whispered, “The most horrible thing I can think of is a life without you, so please don’t force me to live it.”
Mycroft kissed his hair and replied softly, “I’ll do my best.”
He made no promises.
Greg wouldn’t have believed it anyway.
They both knew that given the content of their respective work, anything was possible.
Their only constant, their only certainty, was the strength of their love.
Greg stood with his back to Mycroft’s office door, staring into space, clenching and unclenching his fists. He was breathing rapidly.
“Greg?”
At the sound of Mycroft’s soft voice, Greg turned his head toward him.
“Greg, what’s wrong?” Mycroft repeated as he stood up and walked over to him.
Sighing, Greg’s gaze fell to the floor.
“I… was taking a nap when I got home from work, and I had a nightmare I couldn’t shake. I know you’re working, but I didn’t know where to go. Please…”
Greg couldn’t finish his sentence
Mycroft gazed at his lover for a few seconds, his whole attitude screaming at him, “Please help me.”
“Greg,” Mycroft whispered, stepping towards him, grabbing Greg’s hands and pressing a kiss into the palm of each. “You were right to come find me.”
“But…” Greg tried to protest, albeit weakly.
“No buts, you’ll always be more important than my position here, than my work,” Mycroft continued.
He let go of Greg’s hands and went to lock the door to his office before returning to Greg and leading him to the couch. He helped him sit down and settled beside him, still holding his hand.
Greg whispered softly, “I’m sorry-”
“Stop it, you don’t have to be sorry Greg. In fact, I’m kind of glad you came to see me. You know, you and me, it’s not just when things are going well. It’s also about those times. Never feel sorry or ashamed that you need help. That you need my help.”
He took Greg’s face in his hands and looked into his eyes, “I love you completely, strengths and weaknesses and nothing can ever change that.”
He pressed a lingering kiss to his temple before holding him tightly in his arms. There, in the safety of Mycroft’s embrace, Greg recounted his nightmare and Mycroft listened, offering him support and comfort.
With a final sigh, Greg let go of the last vestiges of his nightmare and felt ready to face reality again.
As he gave Mycroft one last kiss, out of sight, Mycroft rested his hand on his heart and said softly, “Never forget that there are two of us now, neither of us ever have to face anything alone again.”
When Greg left Mycroft’s office a few moments later, he thought back to those words.
When Mycroft followed the path through the small park near their apartment, he knew exactly where he would find Greg.
He immediately spotted the shadowy figure sitting on a bench.
He did nothing to make his presence known and simply went to sit next to him and put his hand on the small of his back.
Then he waited.
After a few minutes of silence Greg asked softly, “How did you know I would be here?”
“Sally texted me, she said that even though you arrested the culprit, the hostage didn’t make it. That’s always where you come in these cases.”
Greg sighed, “You didn’t have to come.”
“Trees can’t answer you, I can. So if you feel like talking I’m here and if you don’t I’m here for moral support too.”
Greg didn’t answer and just leaned against Mycroft who tightened his arm around him.
After many minutes, Greg murmured softly, “Am I up to this?”
Mycroft pressed a kiss to his head before answering.
“Oh Greg, believe me you are. I believe it more than ever, precisely because you’re not indifferent to it. Yes, you couldn’t save the victim and that’s dramatic, but it’s not the first time and it’s not the last. And you have the right to be upset, to be angry, to be sad, to cry. That doesn’t make you a bad detective, on the contrary.”
Greg whispered in a broken voice, “Thank you for allowing me to not always be strong.”
Mycroft held him tighter, “Acknowledging that you’re not always strong, it just means that you’re the most qualified person to do this job with all that it entails. With me, you can let go Greg, I’m here, I’ll always be here. You don’t have to be strong at all times. Let me take over when you can’t.”
Mycroft saw that Greg was opening and closing his fists sporadically. He tightened his grip so that Greg had his head against his chest. In response Greg clutched his coat and breathed through clenched teeth as if he did not want to cry.
Mycroft whispered against his hair.
“Greg, darling, let go, let go, I’m here, I’ve got you.”
Mycroft didn’t know if this is what Greg was expecting, but he felt his hands go slack and Greg’s shoulders shake with sobs while feeling a wetness on his chest.
So he told him again and again, “ Yes Greg, let go, I’ve got you.” and continued to stroke his back and hold him.
Long minutes later, Greg had stopped crying and was breathing calmly against Mycroft’s chest. Then he sat up slowly, and looking at Mycroft, he said “Thank you.” before kissing him gently. Then pulling back a little, he shook his head and had a slight laugh as if to mock himself. “I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve cried like this.”
“At some point it has to come out Greg, you can’t always keep it all in, and I’m glad I was there.”
Greg rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, “I… I guess I didn’t want to show you this side of me, because I was afraid it would make me a weak person.”
“Greg, having weaknesses, doesn’t mean you’re weak, just that you’re human. What should I say, you’ve seen me at my worst, and you’re still here. Do you realize how privileged I feel right now? Greg, you just showed me a side of you that you don’t show anyone, you trust me enough to let me see you at one of your most vulnerable moments.”
Greg took his hand and replied, “Of course I trust you, I love you, it’s only natural that I trust you.”
Mycroft shook his head, “But still Greg, it’s precious to me. I will never take it for granted. So remember, if you fall, I’ve got you.”
Greg nodded, “Okay, okay… you’ll just have to give me a reminder once in a while, you know what they say, old habits die hard…”
Mycroft laughed, “Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Idiot,” Greg replied affectionately before standing up and reaching out to help Mycroft to his feet.
The first time Greg had said those words to Mycroft, they meant nothing more.
It was after an evening in the pub with Sherlock, John and the others. Where for once Mycroft had indulged in a little more drinking than usual and the thoughtful detective had walked him home.
Then what had been a one-time occasion had turned into a regular occasion.
“I’ll walk you home.”
Without any pretext, just like that, the detective was waiting for Mycroft, leaning against the wall as Mycroft left his office.
Always with the same words.
“I’ll walk you home.”
His step matched Mycroft’s and the path to Mycroft’s house seemed shorter each time.
Then the occasion became a habit.
Mycroft’s heart beat faster when he spotted Greg.
Greg was waiting for him with anticipation.
The distance between them had disappeared and the inadvertent brushes at first had become comfortable touches.
As if one was looking for the closeness of the other.
After a while, home was no longer automatically Mycroft’s, it was sometimes Greg’s.
Until today, when it was Mycroft who was leaning against the doorstep of Greg’s office
It was Mycroft who waited for Greg, focused on his work, to notice him.
It was Greg who had the pleasant surprise of hearing Mycroft say these words to him, “I’ll walk you home.”
Even though it didn’t matter who was walking the other home.
Because now it wasn’t Mycroft’s home, it wasn’t Greg’s home.
It was their home.
“I’ll walk you home.”
The habit had become a tradition.
Those little known traditions that only people who love each other know, like an intimate secret.
Mycroft, with a drink in his hand, turned to his brother, raising a questioning eyebrow, “What are you talking about dear brother?”
It was one of those evenings that had gone from casual to traditional, the Holmes brothers, John, Greg and Rosie.
One Saturday night a month.
Somewhat at the instigation of John and Greg, giving Mycroft and Sherlock the opportunity to strengthen their brotherly bond.
John and Greg were playing with Rosie in the garden under the eyes of the two brothers.
“I still can’t believe the fact that you’re in a relationship with Greg.” Seeing that Mycroft was about to take offense, Sherlock stopped him with a gesture, “Don’t get on your big hair just yet, I wasn’t going to say anything mean.”
Mycroft nodded, “All right, I’m listening.”
“What I meant to say was that I didn’t expect you to develop such a relationship with someone like Greg, or Greg with someone like you, if you prefer. You are so… different. You are so secretive and he is so open. I guess I’m just wondering how you work together.”
Mycroft swirled his glass in his hand, before answering, “Remember when we were little? I was the oldest, when you were born I was 7 years old. Mom always told me to look after you. And I always did, with no second thoughts. Sometimes making questionable decisions, you know that. But I did it. However, sometimes I wished I had a big brother too, someone to lean on, someone to look out for me. Well, Greg is that for me. He has seen everything about me, he knows my weaknesses better than anyone else and yet he is still there. He’s my pillar, Sherlock.”
Sherlock could think of nothing to say to the authenticity and fervor of Mycroft’s response. They watched their loved ones walk up the garden path toward them, Rosie running ahead of them, and Sherlock whispered, “I haven’t told you this often Mycroft, but thank you for looking out for me, brother.”
Mycroft nodded and then stood up to meet Greg. When he was face to face with him, John continued on his way to Sherlock.
Mycroft took Greg’s hands, who looked at him with a puzzled look, “I don’t think I ever told you, so I’m fixing that mistake.”
He leaned over, kissed Greg on the forehead and said softly, “Thank you.”
“For what?” asked Greg, having no idea what Mycroft was talking about.
“For being you. For looking out for me.”
Greg smiled softly and replied simply, “Always Mycroft.”
Hand in hand, with quiet steps they walked smilingly to their family.
“Mycroft, stop! I’m fine.” said Greg as Mycroft asked him for the tenth time if he wanted tea or water or a blanket or whatever.
“But the doctor said…”
“Yes, I know what the doctor said, but don’t worry, I promise I’m fine. And I’ll be even better if you sit next to me.”
He held out his hand for Mycroft to come and sit in the chair next to his hospital bed.
They remained silent for a while until Greg fell asleep under Mycroft’s concerned eyes.
Mycroft couldn’t help but worry.
He had the same concerned look on his face when he saw Greg wince in pain as he moved in his sleep.
“Greg… ”, Mycroft murmured as he brushed his fingers over his bandaged shoulder.
He swallowed.
It was his fault.
It was because of him that Greg had been hurt.
Even if it was indirectly.
“Mycroft…”
Greg’s voice interrupted his spiral of guilt.
Greg smiled weakly at him, “you were far away…”
“How are you feeling?”, Mycroft asked, ignoring Greg’s remark.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to lift weights for a while,” Greg began, then his lips curled into a smirk, “You’re going to have to take care of me.”
Mycroft was glad that Greg was feeling well enough to joke, but he still felt extremely guilty.
“Greg, I’m sorry,” he then said gently intertwining his fingers with Greg’s.
“You’re… Sorry? For what?”, Greg asked weakly, “It wasn’t you who shot me as far as I know.”
“I got you into this,” Mycroft said, “If I hadn’t asked you to watch Sherlock and take care of him, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
He looked down at their entwined hands, not daring to meet Greg’s gaze.
“Mycroft, please look at me.” replied Greg.
Mycroft looked up and met Greg’s gaze, free of any accusation. Greg continued, “None of this is your fault. Not even Sherlock’s. The only one responsible for my condition is the one who pulled the trigger. Mycroft, I’m a detective, this kind of situation is common.”
He raised Mycroft’s hand to his mouth and kissed it before saying, “You should stop taking on responsibilities that aren’t yours.”
Mycroft wondered how Greg could be the one to comfort him when he was the one in pain.
“Because my pain is physical while yours is there.” Greg pointed to Mycroft’s head.
Surprised by Greg’s words, he realized that he had spoken aloud.
Greg ran his hand over Mycroft’s cheek and repeated, “I’m fine. It’s just a few stitches. I’ll heal.”
He drew Mycroft’s head down, until it rested on his chest.
“Come here.”
He gently caressed Mycroft’s head, who, reassured by the strong, steady beat of Greg’s heart against his cheek, let the guilt slip away for a few moments and basked in the relief of having his beloved safe and sound against him.
Mycroft and Greg were headed to the Holmes residence.
Having learned that Mycroft had someone in his life, Mycroft’s mother had insisted on a small family reunion, arguing that it was the perfect opportunity to get to know Greg. As they walked, Mycroft noticed Greg’s pace slowing, he looked at him and caught his tense expression.
“Greg?"
Greg continued to walk and answered, still staring ahead.
"Hmm?”
Mycroft asked, concerned, “Are you okay?”
Greg turned his head toward him and replied, “I’m fine.”
“Really?” insisted Mycroft.
“Yes.” Greg replied rather curtly. But Mycroft didn’t take offense - he knew Greg well and knew his tone was hiding something else. Turning his gaze to the house at the end of the road, he said softly, “She doesn’t bite, you know.”
Greg paused and turned to Mycroft as he replied, “I know, well no, actually I don’t, but… She’s your mother and considering the way you and Sherlock treated me at first, I think I’m entitled to be a little nervous right?”
Carefully, Mycroft took Greg’s hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb in a way that was meant to be reassuring.
“Greg, I’m pretty sure you have nothing to worry about.”
Greg gave a small nod and a half-smile, but Mycroft saw that he hadn’t convinced him.
He leaned over to look him straight in the eye and said in a determined voice, “I mean it, you know!”
“I know you mean it, but you can’t speak for her.”
“Are you really that nervous?” asked Mycroft.
Greg turned his head away, doing his best to hide his embarrassment.
“Are you serious? This is the second time in my life I’ve been introduced to the parents of someone I care about and the first time wasn’t exactly stellar.” He preferred not to think about his ex-in-laws.
“I understand, but I really want to ease your mind. I swear I have no doubt that my mother will love you. Besides, in my opinion, she already loves you without knowing you."
Greg chuckled softly, "That doesn’t reassure me. She might as well be disappointed in getting to know me. I might not live up to her expectations.”
Mycroft couldn’t resist taking Greg in his arms and whispered against his hair, “No risk. In his eyes, you are already a saint because you ended his poor son’s long life of loneliness. Thanks to you her son has finally found someone capable of loving him.”
He felt Greg chuckle at him and mutter, “That’s absurd. There’s nothing easier than loving you.”
Mycroft gasped. Count on Greg to make that kind of statement to him out of the blue.
Then Greg stepped back a little and put on a serious expression, “Seriously Mycroft, what if she doesn’t love me?”.
Mycroft refused to consider it and shook his head, “It’s not possible.
"I’m serious,” Greg said abruptly, “If she doesn’t like me, what does that mean for us?”
Mycroft finally understood the real worry behind this, the visceral fear of losing him. He put his hands on Greg’s shoulders and answered firmly, “It won’t change anything for us. I’m not going to stop loving you, even if my mother doesn’t, which is completely unlikely, I insist.”
Mycroft leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss on the forehead, “I love you Greg, and nothing will change that. My mother never tried to change my mind about anything, because she knew I would react the opposite way. But you know, I’m sure she’ll realize something right away when she sees me.”
Greg looked up at Mycroft, puzzled.
“What?”
Mycroft looked at him fondly, “That you simply make me happy.”
Greg said nothing for a long moment, then he took Mycroft’s hand in his and brought it gently to his lips, “It’s mutual.”
“So, are you ready?” asked Mycroft.
Greg looked up at him again and, standing on his tiptoes, kissed him gently on the lips. Then, taking a deep breath, he grabbed Mycroft’s hand and said in a firm tone, “Let’s go.”
He had Mycroft’s love, he had nothing and no one to fear.
Awakened by a ray of sunlight streaming through the shutters, Greg turned in Mycroft’s arms and admired the light playing on his beautiful lover’s features. A feeling of possession came over him even though he knew Mycroft would never be his.
He had sensed a deep sadness in Mycroft the day before but Greg knew he would never tell him what it was.
Greg let himself feel a little melancholy.
He had his soulmate in front of him and knew he couldn’t tell him anything. The worst part was that he could feel their bond growing stronger. Mycroft’s sadness was becoming his own and Greg didn’t know what to do with it.
He whispered, “If you let me in, I’ll take care of you and you’ll never be sad again.”
Suddenly, Greg froze because Mycroft had moved slightly. He hoped that Mycroft hadn’t heard anything. A few seconds later, Greg sighed with relief, Mycroft still looked asleep.
He was so perfect for him. Greg had never felt such harmony with anyone in this way.
Every day discovering new things about his partner.
This was probably one of the things Mycroft enjoyed most about his relationship with Greg.
He had recently discovered that Greg had a slight fixation on his mouth.
Since Mycroft was not a saint, he had stored the information in a corner of his head for later.
Later being tonight as they ate their dessert in the kitchen.
Mycroft was taking great pleasure in ostensibly tasting each spoonful of his creme brulee. Licking each time the spoon much more slowly and longer than necessary while staring at Greg.
Now he could see Greg’s gaze intermittently glide over his lips before quickly looking away.
Of course, Mycroft continued, seeing Greg’s cheeks turn slightly pink, his eyes clouded with desire and his breath quickening as he continued.
He looked into his eyes, innocently licking a small bit of creme brulee that had remained at the corners of his lips and raised a candid eyebrow at Greg, “ Is something wrong Gregory?”
Greg, his voice hoarse with wanting, replied, “Don’t look at me like that. With that deceptively innocent look on your face when you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Mycroft retorted, licking his spoon in a perfectly indecent manner, “And you, if you don’t stop looking at my lips without doing anything, I’m going to take you right here on this counter.”
Greg’s eyes widened and then slowly took on a mischievous gleam.
He crossed his arms, continued to stare at Mycroft’s lips, but did nothing.
Two things that were no longer part of Mycroft’s life.
Because Greg was warmth and life.
Even after a year of living together, Mycroft still marveled at the changes that Greg’s presence brought to his life.
Warmth.
He pressed himself imperceptibly a little more against Greg, feeling the warmth that emanates from his body, even through his clothes.
Mycroft did not want to get up, their bed was so warm and comfortable.
Because Greg made it so warm and comfortable.
Mycroft can’t help but put his arms around Greg, wanting to feel his warmth even more.
“What’s wrong?” Greg mumbled in a sleepy voice against his hair.
“Nothing darling, go back to sleep,” he replied softly, turning his head to kiss Greg’s shoulder.
Greg turned in Mycroft’s arms to wrap his arms around him in turn and Mycroft felt his smile against his forehead.
Greg’s smile, as warm as his body.
The smile that warmed Mycroft’s coldest and darkest days.
Mycroft couldn’t help but smile back and settled into the embrace. His eyes closed, sleep already coming back and he sighed in contentment.
Happy in the warm embrace of his beloved.
Life.
Mycroft had once enjoyed the silence, or rather he had become accustomed to it by force of circumstance.
An empty and silent apartment.
An empty, silent bed.
Falling asleep and waking up in silence.
Now when Mycroft woke up, he was immediately aware of Greg’s presence next to him, by the little puffs of air next to him, the little noises he made when he woke up.
“Good morning, Mycroft.”
By this sound every morning, Greg’s voice hoarse or not from sleep, sweet music to Mycroft’s ears.
All these sounds he now associates with Greg.
In the bathroom, the kitchen, everywhere in Mycroft’s life.
Life.
Like that morning when he watched Greg getting busy in the kitchen.
Greg who was watching him coming in.
Gref who was smiling at him.
Life and warmth.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Greg without losing his smile.
“What do you mean?” muttered Mycroft a little embarrassed at being caught out.
“As if I were the only person in the world.”
Mycroft couldn’t help but reply, “You are. You’re everything to me. You’re my everything.”
Greg looked at him with indescribable emotion and whispered, “I love you.” before kissing him gently.
Just like that, silence no longer existed in Mycroft’s life, because he was filled with Greg’s love.
Despite this, Mycroft could not help but worry and wander up and down the hallways of the ward where Greg was hospitalized.
He knew it was a fairly routine operation, but it brought him face to face once again with the fragility of the human body, with Greg’s fragility.
He didn’t like that.
Fortunately, a few hours later, he was able to verify with his own eyes what the doctor had said, that the operation had gone perfectly, that Greg had woken up and was just still a little disoriented from the anesthesia and painkillers.
When Mycroft entered the room, his throat tightened as he saw Greg smaller than usual in the medical nightgown. His eyes were still cloudy from the effects of the anesthesia and his skin was pale, making him look even more fragile.
“Hi,” Mycroft said softly as he approached, then sitting down on the edge of the bed, he took Greg’s hand as he looked at him.
Greg’s eyes widened and, with an expression of utter surprise, he asked, “Um, who are you?”
Mycroft didn’t know at that moment whether to cry or laugh.
“Are you testing me?”
Greg shook his head sheepishly, “No, I swear, I don’t know who you are.”
“Well I’m Mycroft.” He replied with a small smile.
“And is that supposed to mean something to me?” asked Greg again. He ran his hand over his face, “I actually don’t remember anything, everything is very fuzzy in my head. But the doctors told me it was normal, that it happens sometimes.."
He seemed to think for a moment, then he pointed to his hand in Mycroft’s and said, "I guess we know each other well, otherwise you wouldn’t be holding my hand like that, right? Besides, you wouldn’t be allowed in my room.”
The doctor had said he was still disoriented, so Mycroft didn’t let it throw him off. Besides, Greg wasn’t rejecting him.
“Ahem, yes… we actually know each other very well, we are… together. We live together.”
Greg’s eyes widened even more, “Together… like… lovers?” he asked incredulously.
Mycroft nodded, smiling softly at his disbelief.
Greg ran his hand over his face again, then looked at Mycroft, “If that’s true, it’s really amazing."
"Why?” asked Mycroft, growing more amused.
“How can someone as beautiful as you be with someone like me?”
Mycroft blushed slightly, as he did every time Greg gave him that kind of compliment, then pulled himself together and gently scolded Greg, “What does it mean someone like you? I’ve told you many times, and I hope you’ll remember soon, you’re perfect for me, we’re perfect for each other. But even if you have forgotten, I will remind you again and again.”
Then he leaned over to Greg and whispered, “May I kiss you?”
Greg tilted his head to the side and scrutinized him for a long minute, then moved his hand forward and gently touched Mycroft’s face.
His face lit up with a soft smile and he whispered, “My Mycroft…” he brushed off a lock of Mycroft’s hair that fell across his forehead and continued, “I remember… you, just you…"
Mycroft closed the distance between them and pressed a soft kiss on Greg’s lips before resting his head on his chest, exhaling a sigh of relief.
Greg closed his arms around him and gently stroked his hair, repeating, "Mycroft…my Mycroft…”
Without a doubt, Greg would remember everything.
But for Mycroft, knowing that he was the first thing Greg remembered was simply magical and filled him with incredible happiness.
Mycroft could never have dreamed of a love so strong that even in forgetfulness it left traces.
When he opened his eyes, Greg saw the note on Mycroft’s bedside table. He was secretly relieved to see that Mycroft had preferred the privacy of their suite for their last evening together.
Their last evening.
Once again, Greg’s throat tightened.
He had gotten the impression last night that Mycroft wanted to open up, but this morning…
This morning, Mycroft had already been up and about for a long time judging by the cold seat next to Greg.
Once again, he was surprised at how quickly he had become attached to the man. He felt as if he had known him forever.
And they will part tomorrow.
Trying to push away these thoughts that would get him nowhere, Greg stood up and began to look for Mycroft.
He found him leaning against the window frame, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, staring out over the London skyline.
“Good morning,” Greg said with a yawn as he approached him.
Mycroft turned and came to meet him. He leaned over and kissed him gently before saying, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby.” Greg replied, “Did you sleep well?”
“Not too bad, but let’s leave that aside,” Mycroft took a short pause before he continued, “I already had breakfast while I was waiting for you to wake up, I had a couple of things to take care of. You can have it here, if you want, and then we’ll get ready for the Sky Garden. The cab is waiting for us as soon as we are ready. Since I wanted us to be at ease, the agency managed to reserve the top floor just for us.”
“That’s really great.”
Greg sensed, however, a special restlessness in Mycroft, but mostly a slight distance. He did not insist on finding out why, however, and began eating his breakfast.
Mycroft sat down opposite him, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and leafed through the newspaper. After a few minutes, the feeling of uneasiness dissipated and their complicity was again there.
Mycroft made Greg laugh more than once with his caustic comments about what he was reading in the paper, and Greg was still laughing as he finished dressing a few moments later. When he came out of his room, Mycroft was already waiting for him in the hallway.
He held out his hand, the gesture still causing the same warm feeling in Greg, and asked, “Ready to go?
“How can you believe that someone as open as Greg could stay with you and all your secrets!"
Mycroft awoke to these words spoken by someone whose face he could not see in his nightmare.
Heart racing, breathless, he looked to see if he had woken Greg, but fortunately, his lover was sound asleep.
He slowly slid out of the warm bed, shivered a little as his feet touched the cold floor and headed for the bathroom.
He walked to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. When he looked up, he faced himself in the mirror and looked away. He didn’t have the strength to look at himself, not right after that nightmare.
He tried to ignore the little voice in his head, "You don’t deserve this happiness… You know that, and you’re just deluding yourself.”
Mycroft faced his reflection, refusing to be drawn into this spiral, but tonight the voice in his head was louder than usual.
“He’ll figure it out eventually. And he’ll kick you out and you’ll be alone again…”
Mycroft clenched his hands on the sink and faced his reflection again and just said, “No. Greg knows me. He knows this isn’t who I am. He knows who I am and loves me the way I am.”
He left the bathroom and slid back into the bed, he moved closer to Greg until he was against him and Greg automatically tightened his arms around him.
« Mmm… Mycroft? Is that you, love?“
"Yes, Gregory, you can go back to sleep.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, don’t worry, sleep now.”
He hoped Greg would go back to sleep, but his lover knew him well, he woke up completely and reaching out, he turned on the light. He took Mycroft’s face in his hands, and looking at him closely, he asked the same question again, “Are you okay? And don’t lie to me Mycroft, you know I see it when you lie.”
Mycroft swallowed and couldn’t escape Greg’s scrutinizing eyes. His eyes that looked at him with such love.
“What’s wrong?” insisted Greg, concerned. Mycroft let out a sigh and looking away, he asked in a barely audible voice, “Am I good enough for you?”.
“Oh Mycroft…” Greg let go of Mycroft’s face and wrapped his arms around Mycroft with all his strength. Mycroft buried his face in Greg’s neck.
Greg thought for a moment and asked Mycroft, “Good enough for me in what way, love?”
As Mycroft searched for his answer, Greg gently stroked his back and lightly kissed his hair.
“An unknown person says to me in my nightmare, ‘How can you believe that someone as open as Greg could stay with you and all your secrets?’ I know… god I know it’s not true, my reason tells me it’s not true because we’ve talked about it and I know you’re aware of what I’m allowed to say or not say, but sometimes that little voice comes back to torment me.”
Greg grabbed Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him away from him a little so he could look him in the eye, “Don’t listen to that little voice and only listen to mine.”
Mycroft nodded, but Greg saw the flicker in his eyes that told him Mycroft needed more reassurance.
He pushed him down on the bed and straddled him, then framing his face with his hands, he leaned over him and still with his eyes in his, he said to Mycroft, “Even when I thought I was done with love, you came into my life and taught me to love again. You not only taught me, but you also showed me your unconditional love and care for me. And you also loved me when I thought there was no reason to. You didn’t leave me to my ruins. Despite all my imperfections and flaws, you love me just as I am. And despite all your imperfections and flaws, I love you just the way you are. Because you are a beautiful person Mycroft, here…” Greg kissed his forehead, “just like here…” he kissed Mycroft’s chest where his heart was before looking at him again.
In that moment, in the mirror that was Greg’s eyes, Mycroft saw nothing but sincerity and love and Mycroft believed him. He was the one who closed his arms around Greg’s neck and drew him closer in a kiss that said everything his words could not convey.
Greg knew everything about conflicts and disputes in a couple, in a family.
First his parents, his father with him, his ex-wife.
It was the first time he had an argument with Mycroft and it was the first time he felt so bad.
Because this time he had a lot to lose.
He didn’t even know what had caused the argument and his words had gone beyond his mind. He had lashed out at Mycroft and blamed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
Now they were both there in the kitchen, in a silence of death.
Mycroft was quietly making tea and Greg didn’t know how to start the conversation.
Apologize, apologize…
“Greg."
Although Mycroft spoke softly, Greg startled at his own name.
This was the moment.
This was the moment Mycroft was going to admit that he was done with him, that he didn’t want to be with him anymore.
Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t answered.
"Greg, are you going to talk to me or would you rather we continue to ignore each other.”
He couldn’t lift his eyes to look at his face.
He didn’t want to see the disappointment on Mycroft’s face.
He couldn’t help but whisper, “Is this the part where you say you’re going to leave me?”
Keeping his eyes down, he didn’t realize that Mycroft had moved closer until he took his chin and forced his head up. He looked flabbergasted and asked in a confused tone, “What put that idea in your head?”
Greg shook his head, realizing the absurdity of what he had just thought and began, “I don’t know, I…”
Mycroft interrupted him, “Forget it right now. Surely a little disagreement like that isn’t going to make me leave you, idiot. It was going to happen sooner or later, arguments are a part of life, but you and I have enough experience to know that half the things we say to each other in the heat of the moment don’t reflect what we really think."
Greg nodded, taking comfort in Mycroft’s gaze.
However, even if his words hadn’t reflected his thoughts, he still wanted to apologize.
"I’m sorry. All those things I said, you have to know that I really didn’t mean them. I don’t even know why I said them, I was just raging. Mycroft… If I lost you, I don’t know what I would do. Not sure I’d survive.”
“I love you."
Just with those words from Mycroft, their fight in itself didn’t matter anymore.
Mycroft kissed him gently and added, "And I’m sorry too."
They hugged each other and were relieved to reconnect.
For a long time they remained entwined in silence, but that silence was not the same silence as before. It was filled with the certainty of being forgiven and the love they had for each other.
Greg was about to enter the living room when he heard Sherlock’s question and stopped, curious about Mycroft’s answer.
There were a few moments of silence, then his lover replied, “There are many things I’m not sure about in my life, brother, but this, our relationship, is definitely not one of them.”
Greg smiled at Mycroft’s answer as Sherlock continued, “You know Mycroft, even though at first I was doubtful, I think even I can see that you and Greg are perfect for each other.”
Mycroft chuckled softly and replied, “I was doubtful too, even though I knew he was perfect for me, I didn’t understand what I could mean to him.”
Sherlock insisted, “But you’re not anymore?”
“What?”
“Doubtful.”
“Oh no, not anymore.”
Greg felt warmth come over him at the assurance in Mycroft’s voice.
He hadn’t heard Sherlock get up and was surprised when he opened the door. Sherlock didn’t look the least bit surprised and simply nodded as he walked past Greg.
Greg entered the living room and walked over to Mycroft who had his back to him.
He put his hands on his shoulders and slid them down his chest. Mycroft’s hands rested on his as he leaned his head back against Greg.
Greg whispered in his ear, “You mean the world to me, Mycroft. You’ve always meant the world to me.”
A new fic! This is another cheer-up fic for @strangelock221b with the Noble Copper ship this time. Enjoy!
In Flight Bonding - Greg and Donna share a seat on a flight from London to New York, and what starts as a friendly conversation takes a turn for the interesting when they realize they have a few mutual friends.
He never minded sitting in the middle of an aisle on the plane, but today he was in luck, he thought to himself. He’d managed to score an aisle seat, which helped with the tingly feeling that if there was an emergency he would be unable to help in a snap. He had the same feeling when he managed to score a window seat, but at least there he was distracted. As he got to his seat he saw a ginger woman sitting by the window, looking out. He was stuck by her, in that she wasn’t lovely but…well, striking. She had bags on both seats, though, and that would pose a problem.
“Ma’am, I’ve got the aisle seat,” he said, and she turned to look at him, an irritated look on her face marring her features momentarily before she closed her mouth and shook her head.
“Sorry,” she said, moving the bag from the aisle seat to the middle seat. “I was hoping I could sit alone, just because I don’t want conversation.”
“I can leave you be, but I do need my seat.”
“Of course,” she said with a nod.
“But we can recommend that anyone trying to take the middle seat find someplace else to sit,” he said, opening his suit jacket and revealing the emblazoned holder of his coppers badge. She perked up a bit as he closed his suit jacket and sat down.
“I’m sorry. Normally I’m chatty, but I’m annoyed by the delay. I don’t know if I’m going to make my connecting flight in New York at this rate.” She paused. “Can’t you get them to hurry the hell up?”
He chuckled. “I’m not sure a badge is that persuasive, but if anyone causes trouble, I can whip them in line with it.” He got comfortable in the seat and looked at her. “Where are you headed?”
“Los Angeles,” she said. “Visiting an old friend. You?”
“Just New York. Cross-jurisdictional case.” He looked around. The airplane was filling up rapidly so hopefully, they’d leave soon and his companion would make her flight. Then he turned back to her. “I’m Greg Lestrade.”
“Donna Noble,” she said, reaching over to offer her hand for a handshake.
He shook it and realized her skin wasn’t soft, and there were small callouses on her fingertips. Whatever she did, it probably involved a lot of typing. But what struck him, even more, was the name. It seemed familiar. He knew it from a conversation with the Doctor, but he couldn’t reveal that without sounding crazy. So he tried to remember the context of the conversation and a way to bring up his familiarity with her popped up. “You’re the lottery winner.”
“Yeah, I am,” she said, her lips tightening into a line slightly. “Before you ask, it’s invested, and my husband left me when he realized I wasn’t going to support his every whim. Bastard.”
“My ex-wife could join his club,” he said.
“Coppers don’t make that much, do they?” she asked, the tightness in her lips gone and replaced by a curiosity in her eyes.
“No, but I had an inheritance,” he said. “She figured it was her fun fund, so to speak. It’s all gone now, mostly spent on the divorce. But it was worth it to have control over my finances again.”
“Here here,” Donna said. The captain got on the intercom then, saying they would take off shortly and that they needed to pay attention to the safety protocols being demonstrated by the flight attendants. “Finally.”
“When does your connecting flight leave?” he asked, turning his body as much as he could in her direction.
“Almost immediately after we were supposed to land,” she said. The expression on her face was glum. “I don’t want to be trapped in La Guardia for the night.
“You can go to my hotel with me if you need a place to crash,” he said. “I have a double room if you’ll just have a few hours to kill. Room service and crap telly were my plans once I got settled.”
The corner of her lips quirked up in a smile. “And what makes you think I go to hotel rooms with random coppers?”
He tapped the side of his nose. “Intuition.”
She laughed at that and he smiled. She really was prettier when she smiled. “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” she said, turning to face him.
It rains today. It’s still winter, but not cold enough to form snow. So, instead, the heavens above cry out and rain litters the London streets. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Sherlock and John did not celebrate - they’re simply not the type.
Sherlock stands facing the window, curtains separated so he can peer out to the street below. London is both sad and beautiful during a rain shower. He balances his violin over his shoulder and plays a simplistic song that bellows throughout the flat. John’s in the shower and Sherlock plays this song for no one at all. It is not John’s song and simply something he composed somewhere in between his travels. It’s not that it doesn’t matter, he’s simply misplaced it in his mind palace and he doesn’t quite have the need to detail out where, when, and why he composed such a piece. So he plays because even though they have nothing on and it’s raining and he should be bored, he finds comfort in this.
It’s not been easy nor has it been perfect but this is what he has pursued for over a year and a half. He’s wanted this moment - one of many - and now he is allowed to have it. He enjoys this.
John comes from the bathroom sometime later. His hair is wet on the edges and he drapes the white towel around his shoulders. If you looked close enough, you could see several gray hairs line his forehead. He’s getting old and there is no doubting that, but he feels of youth as he makes his way to the sitting room. He sees his flatmate - his something not yet titled - justthere. He hadn’t been there for over a year and a half and this transition, this motion from past to present allows John to feel something beyond time working against them.
He slips behind Sherlock because he is allowed to do so and he folds his hands around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock does not pause - nor does he miss a note, and John simply presses his cheek to the younger’s shoulder. Seemingly, this should be odd or different or something that John is not but this is home to him - to the both of them - and this is what the both of them want. John would not trade this for the world and he tightens his hold on the detective at that thought because if he were to die at whatever age, he knows now, he would want just one more second to hold onto this man and never let him go.
“You’re thinking,” Sherlock says, pulling the violin away from his chin, ceasing the music from livelihood.
“Your deductions are becoming better by the day.” John retorts, enjoying the casual yet silly banter shared between the pair. He sighs, nonetheless, and closes his eyes, burying himself between the hollow of bones he finds on Sherlock’s back. “What piece was that, Sherlock?”
“I don’t remember,” Sherlock replies. He pulls away, only slightly, and sets the violin down in its case before turning to face the opposite. He really is taller than John, or perhaps, the doctor is just far too short. But he’s smiling, handsomely so, and Sherlock likes when John smiles. If he could announce it, even just mentally, he could say that he loves when John smiles. We’ll just say it for him.
“You never forget,” John says, tilting his chin up. Sherlock can see the teardrops of water clinging to the end of his hairs. He wants to run in the rain with John.
“I’ll never forget you.” Sherlock says. It’s the truth and both of them know it. John only smiles, not articulating a reply, and presses his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
This time Sherlock holds onto John.
He doesn’t let go either.
*
day fourteen
John’s been picking up shifts and Sherlock’s been, well, keeping himself occupied. Lestrade offers him small cases, for now at least, but only because Sherlock finally gave way and said that one or two is alright. At least it tides him over until John comes home from whatever useless job he has – well, at least in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock’s out today though, and John’s just come home from a ten hour shift at the clinic. They don’t really need the money, he knows that now, but he still enjoys working and he doesn’t plan to stop until Sherlock’s ready to retire or he just gets too tired to go in. He likes being a doctor, contrary to popular belief - at least it comes in handy when Sherlock tries to argue with an experiment. That happens quite a bit.
But today is not an emergency day, per se. Instead John simply stops by Tesco’s and picks up ingredients to make spaghetti and meatballs. He thinks they’ve ordered takeaway one too many times for the week and since he’s off early enough in the day, he’d like to cook a meal for Sherlock and himself. However, that all doesn’t go as planned because, really, what in the world ever goes by a particular plan when it comes to the residents of 221B?
It starts with John returns to that particular flat. He’s dropped off the groceries in the kitchen and removed both his jacket and shoes. He likes, just after toeing them off, when he sets them by Sherlock’s own pair. But Sherlock’s not home today. However, someone is. He hears a noise coming from the bedroom and he raises a brow - odd, really. A sign that Sherlock is home is that his shoes are there (coat and scarf included) and quite obviously, Sherlock is not.
“Sherlock?” John calls. “You home?”
He wanders the spare amount of distance between the bedroom and sitting room and peeks in. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is doing the cleaning (the sheets really, reallyneed tidying for apparent and obvious reasons). But it’s rather the opposite when he peeks into the bedroom - theirbedroom.
“Um,” John says, almost as if he’s caught off guard by to the random man standing in said bedroom, “Wrong house?”
He’s really gotten soft in his age because, in the past, he would have pulled a gun or at least lifted a fist. But no, apparently now, if you wandered into 221B, you were greeted with a man who sported a rather comfortable looking jumper and just a tad awkward smile. But it was a rather handsome smile nonetheless.
“Oh, hello,” the opposite says, turning and offering a brilliant smile in return, “I was looking for Sherlock. I’m not sure if he told you who I was?” John just blinks and shakes his head minutely, “Of course not. Sounds like Sherlock. Anyways, hello - John, yes? - I’m Victor. Victor Trevor.”
There’s roughly forty-three seconds in time that exist where John’s (right) fist collides with Victor’s (right) cheek and another nineteen seconds when John comes to term with reality versus anger and bends halfway over, touching Victor’s shoulder. “Oh god, I’m sorry. That - that, yes, sorry.”
Victor only laughs because there are so few men like Victor in the world and regardless if he is hit or shot or hugged, he is going to make the best out of everything. It’s just the type of person he is and it’s the type of person he loves to be. He touches his cheek and sits up slightly, using his free hand on his knee to hold his steady. “Nice to meet you too, John Watson.”
If John and Sherlock hadn’t already made love, John would have punched him again. Jealousy really is a spiteful thing.
Instead he offers to make tea and a cold compress.
*
day fifteen
Just over two weeks from their reunion, they find their selves settles on the sofa, collapsed on the opposite after a long round of lovemaking. John isn’t demanding of sex, but that isn’t because Sherlock doesn’t like it. Sherlock, in fact, enjoys it and will often gloat about it on his laptop to those he speaks with. John’s not particularly fond of the way his male body parts are discussed, but Sherlock just smiles broadly and replies, “You should be proud of the fact that you have a nicely sized penis. Some men out there do not and you know I have high expectations.”
That remark, obviously, leads to Sherlock’s face being hit with a pillow. They giggled for over ten minutes straight and Sherlock kissed him for just as long.
But today is rather different. The sun is rising and Sherlock is draped over John’s chest while a sheet covers them both. John loves these moments and Sherlock’s rather fond of them too. He enjoys the fact that he can be happy here - just here - in the silence that follows sexual activities. He knows it is beyond his control to even attempt to stay in this sort of situation all day (really, far too sticky) but he has no problem spending a good three-quarters of an hour basking in the afterglow.
“What did you do with Victor, Sherlock?”
Victor only stayed an hour or so the day prior. John sent a text to Sherlock and Sherlock arrived, via taxi, half an hour later. Sherlock grinned rather smugly at the sight of Victor Trevor holding a towel-wrapped package of frozen peas to his cheek and John only blushed. Perhaps there was something more then, but it was never going to be what Sherlock wanted - it was never going to be what Sherlock needed. They exchanged a small hug and Victor asked for them not to be strangers. They both knew that meant Sherlock alone and strangely enough, John was alright with that. As long as they no longer shared a bed of course.
However, again, back in this moment, Sherlock does not lie. Not to John and not about this. “We shared a bed on three different occasions. We kissed the same amount, though we never went beyond. He offered, to an extent, and while I had the opportunity to do so - he informed me that he didn’t want to be hurt.”
John traces a figure on Sherlock’s chest. He feels childish in his response but he’s never loved someone like this. “Did you love him? Do you?”
Sherlock snorts and tilts his head to the side, pressing his lips to John’s forehead. “You’re ever the idiot, John,” he sighs softly and closes his eyes - he’s got about another quarter-of-an-hour before he needs to reoccupy his mind, “The only person I could ever love is you. I haven’t the room, time, patience, or want to love anyone else.”
John could make a joke about loving Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson or his skull, but instead he basks in the glory of being the love of Sherlock’s life and it guides him to sleep.
*
day nineteen
Mycroft visits. Apparently the British Government can get slow from time to time. He doesn’t carry his umbrella but he has a briefcase and he wears a tired smile that seems to have made a home as of late on his face. Mrs. Hudson is the one to let him in and everyone can see the spark of sadness in his eyes when he glances in the direction of Sherlock and John. John is sitting on the sofa with the newspaper held in his hands while Sherlock lies opposite, his feet piled into John’s lap. Mycroft wants that and everyone knows this because Mycroft’s never really had love before Greg Lestrade and everyone knows that men like Mycroft rarely ever get it in the first place.
John says something before Sherlock does. He knows how brutal their relationship can be.
“Have a new case to beg Sherlock to take?”
“Actually, no,” Mycroft responds. He takes a seat in Sherlock’s chair and watches the pair of them. John’s shown the decency to place the newspaper back onto the coffee table but apparently, Sherlock can’t find the time to do anything besides turn to his side and face the back of the sofa with a huff. John just chuckles and settles his hand (the right) on Sherlock’s side. John glances back at Mycroft and he can read the world on his face because he’s worn that face before. He knows what it feels like.
“What can we do for you Mycroft?”
Mycroft swallows. This is hard for him. He is not a man of weakness. “I would like for you to talk to Gregory for me, on my behalf, if you could.”
John licks his lips but Sherlock does not move. “Are you sure that’s a wise idea, Mycroft?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue of what else to do. You - Sherlock, either or both of you, if you could. I don’t know if you’ve mentioned me in prior conversations with him, but now, at the very least, I’d like you to extend a few words to him for me.”
John looks down at Sherlock now. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his face is pressed into the cushion of the sofa. It’s unlikely that Sherlock will help and John knows this for a fact. He knows that Greg has been hurting and Greg is just as stubborn, if not more, as him. They talk about Mycroft only in passing, spare bits of words here and there, and he doesn’t know what else more he can do. But here Mycroft is and John’s not a man to say no - nor is he a man to see another hurting, even if itisMycroft.
“What would you like me to say?”
Mycroft is watching the empty fireplace as if a fire is illuminated. This is hard for him but he will do this for Gregory because he is at his wits ends and not even the Queen could save him now. “Tell him that I miss him and that I am sorry,” Mycroft says, quietly and to almost just himself, but John can hear just enough, “and that I have thought about him every day.”
It’s quiet in 221B and John does not reply. It’s only a matter of seconds before Mycroft stands up. This is hard on him - really hard - and he can only find the decency to straighten his suit jacket and nod in the direction of John before making his way to the door of the sitting room. John stops him first though, words just as quiet. “I told you before, Mycroft, he misses you too.”
“Will you tell him what I said?”
“Of course.”
Two and a half minutes later when the sedan downstairs is gone, John focuses on Sherlock whom has yet to move an inch. John’s fingers are massaging Sherlock’s side gently because it is as natural as nature. Perhaps another three minutes later, Sherlock finally turns on his back once again and gazes up at John. His eyes are not wet nor does he read much of any emotional expression that can be deduced. He is a master of disguise and only his words can explain everything.
“He is my brother,” Sherlock says. His fingers have found their way onto John’s jumper and they hold on tight because just like Mycroft, emotional announcements do not come easy. “And I may not understand him, nor do I like him - much. But I do not like to see him hurt.”
John figures it out. “You could not bear to look at him like that.”
Sherlock nods and they stare at each other for a long time.
Sherlock really is human.
*
day twenty-one
They solve a small case for Lestrade. It takes them roughly three and a half hours and John tells Lestrade what Mycroft has said. The detective inspector is slightly taken aback but John only shrugs his shoulders. Sherlock is too busy investigating what nonsense he can get into in Lestrade’s office. It’s mostly though, to ignore the conversation at hand. The last thing he needs to do is offer emotional advice on a situation regarding Lestrade and his brother. It’s a terrible experiment in the making.
“I’ll talk to him.” Lestrade announces. Sherlock’s turned away where no one can see his lips curl into a smile.
“Good then, yeah?” John replies, arms crossed at his chest.
“Maybe,” Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, “Doesn’t mean I forgive him. Damn well doesn’t mean I’m getting back together with him either - but, yeah, I’ll contact him.”
Sherlock’s smile fades a little. He thinks, deduces even, that even if Lestrade wanted to get back together with Mycroft, he probably wouldn’t. Not everything is perfect, Sherlock knows, but Mycroft has the Queen, country, and government to hold him over till he dies.
That evening they go to Angelo’s and sit in their usual spot. Angelo is not in so there is no candle and they sit just the same. John gets Sherlock to order and they each have a glass of wine to start with. This should be considered a date but they do not title it as such a thing. They just know it as dinner and laughing and grinning and well, trying to get Sherlock to eat at least half his meal. John finds it helpful when they just share an entree. For being such a sociopath, Sherlock does have romantic tendencies (ones he may or may not be aware of). For example, the detective is rather fond of their knees touching under the table.
It’s after the second glass of wine where John’s laughing so hard that there are tears pouring from his eyes, when he says, after fighting the laughter to stand inside, “Got anything on tomorrow?”
The restaurant is empty and it’s nearing closing time. This is not Sherlock being brave or romantic or going out on a whim. This is Sherlock seeing John - just John (you don’t need to add in details of the lighting or music or level of alcohol in both) - and doing something that he simply wants to do. He leans over, curving his body around the edge of the table. His hand lifts up and touches John’s cheek and he smiles - well, rather, both of them smile. “Perhaps.”
“Oh?” John says. He’s not caught off guard because he knows this is Sherlock just being Sherlock. “A case?”
“Of sorts.” Sherlock replies, their faces incredibly close.
“Will you be needing your blogger?”
“I’d be lost without him,” Sherlock says, and makes the leftover distance vanish.
John doesn’t need to say, I’d be lost without you too, because he’s too busy kissing Sherlock and sometime later, when they’re under white sheets entwined by limbs, he thinks to himself, he’s pretty sure Sherlock’s deduced all of this - all of everything - a hell of a long time ago.
