Hello there~ Happy Mycroft Appreciation Day! :D I did NOT write all this today, I just finished it in time. Fuck, I can't write ~8,860 words in the three hours I've had for it today X'D Only for NaNoWriMo.
Enjoy ^^
Warnings: Angst. Then fluff. Bad language.
Adventures of Sherlock Holmes (c) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Sherlock BBC (c) Mark Gatiss & Stephen Moffat
*EDIT* Now with 28% less typos. Thank you to anon!Reviewer 'Catrina Marlow' for pointing them out so graciously.
"Cup of coffee?" Mycroft smiled gently, holding the door open for the weary Detective Inspector.
"That would be fantastic," Gregory Lestrade sighed, slumping into a chair and closing his eyes.
Mycroft smiled and fetched it for him, humming something that, to Greg's unrefined ear, could have been Beethoven or a pop song. He handed the china cup and saucer to him and gently kissed his temple. "Bad day, was it?"
"No worse than usual," Greg said, smiling wanly up at Mycroft. "Thanks."
"It's no trouble," Mycroft assured him with the air of a man used to putting others at their ease. "Why don't you tell me about it?"
Greg smiled and kissed Mycroft's knuckles. Mycroft was always willing to listen.
Six months earlier
That's the state of the marriage right there. Sherlock had said about the victim. The rest of her jewellery is regularly cleaned, but the outside of her wedding ring is not. The inside is clean; the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger.
Lestrade sighed and tried to push the thought away. It had been a very long day. Getting up early for the press conference on the serial suicides, working through the night chasing after Sherlock to find the killer, and finally trying to sort out the mess of the dead cabbie. It was close to two in the morning and he was aching for some sleep.
The case was solved, a serial… murderer, he supposed, gone from the streets. They had been able to uncover what had happened, and maybe it would give the four grieving families some closure. Lestrade couldn't imagine that it would help to know your loved ones had chosen a pill at a last ditch attempt to live, at the whim of a cabbie with a death-wish, rather than an arbitrary suicide, but that was just his thinking.
But what Sherlock had said about the last victim's wedding ring – he didn't count the cabbie as a victim – was stuck in his head. Unhappily married, a serial adulteress. He wanted to ignore it, tell himself that it was just a coincidence that Sherlock had deduced that. But Sherlock was never wrong about these things, and he had to admit it made logical sense. He wanted to tell himself the only reason it was stuck in his head was because he was tired. But… he and Alison had been having problems recently, and his mind kept going over recent memories, trying the remember whether her ring was tarnished or not.
Stop it, he told himself as he unlocked his front door as quietly as he could. She's not cheating on you. He crept up the stairs to the bedroom and sighed when he found a pillow, duvet and his pyjamas left outside.
The message was clear: if you won't come home when you said you would, you can sleep on the couch.
He was tempted for a minute to ignore the little jab and wake her up, but it passed. He sighed and went back downstairs, carrying the bundle. This was his reward for trying to catch serial killers and drug dealers and the scum of London: another night on the sofa.
He tried to remember the last time he and Alison had actually talked to each other. He was busy with work, and she devoted herself to helping her pupils get through their exams. Neither had stress-free jobs, but they had known that when they got married. It didn't seem to matter how often he apologised for missing dinners, coming home late, bringing his work home with him and working through the night, getting phone calls at all hours… well, he could see her point, actually. But he did try, he really did.
Lately when they talked it always ended up as an argument about his work, about his faults as a husband. Sometimes, he was ashamed to admit, he stayed at the office to avoid her after their fights. Recently when he did get home on time, flowers and a bottle of wine ready to beg her forgiveness, she hadn't been home. Those times, she would come home late and creep into bed beside him smelling of alcohol and aftershave.
Of course I'm wearing men's deodorant! Anderson's voice echoed in his mind. Sherlock's smug reply soon followed. So is Sergeant Donavon. Oh, I think it just vaporised.
He rolled over and pulled the duvet further over his head, trying to sleep. He told himself that she wasn't the type to cheat, she was unfailingly loyal to him despite the stress of his job. They were booked in for marriage counselling – that was going to be fun – in a week or two, it would be fine. They would work things out, and he would feel guilty for ever doubting her. They would laugh and things would go back to the wonderful way it had been when they were still excited about being newlyweds. Maybe at Christmas they would both finally have enough time off to really work things through. He wanted to make this marriage work, he wanted to make her happy.
The next morning he was woken by a cushion being thrown at him. "Get up, Greg."
"Huh?" He mumbled sleepily, sitting up. "What time is it?"
"Six. We need to talk before I go to work." Alison said crisply, sitting down opposite him.
Four hours sleep, bloody hell, he thought, trying to wake up. This didn't sound like it was going to be a pleasant conversation. "Okay, okay, I'm awake. Morning."
"When did you get in last night?" She asked, sipping some coffee. Greg noticed she hadn't gotten him any, or asked if he would like some. Just another thing that had become the norm for them lately.
"About two o'clock," He admitted reluctantly, trying to stretch out a kink in his neck.
She frowned at him. "Go on then, what's the excuse this time?"
She's all ready for a fight, Greg thought with a grimace. He braced himself. "I'm sorry I missed the party, but we had another one of those serial suicides, and things were moving so fast, and Sherlock kept us running around after him all night—"
"You know what, I don't want to hear it today," Alison interrupted him, shaking her head. "I've had it up to here with this, Greg."
"It's my job," He said helplessly. "What do you want me to do, leave the police? 'Cause I'm telling you right now, that ain't gonna happen."
"Of course not, I knew our relationship was second to your job even before we were engaged," She retorted. "What I resent is that, that… lunatic getting in the way as well!"
"Lunatic, what lunatic—"
"Sherlock bloody Holmes!" She snapped. "You never come home on time when he's on the case! You go on and on and on about him, how brilliant he is, how he takes over your cases, how he's such a great man. You can't see anyone but him, can you?"
"Sherlock?" Greg repeated dully, finding it difficult to keep up. "This is about Sherlock now?"
"Of course it is, you never shut up about the man." She pinched the bridge of her nose, looking irritated. "Greg, I married you knowing you were bi. I was fine with it, I was always fine with it, because you were marrying me and I trusted you. But if you'd rather be screwing that maniac then just say so and we can cut the crap here."
He was stunned. "What, you think I'm having an affair with Sherlock?" He laughed incredulously.
"I think you're more gay than bi, Greg," She shot back. "And it would've been nice if you'd told me ten years ago, when you proposed."
"That's not true," He said, feeling his temper heating up. "Alison, when have I ever… oh, forget it. You're determined not to believe me. Though you've got some nerve, calling me a cheat, when—" He bit back the rest of his response, regretting it the moment it was past his lips.
He saw the brief flash of fear in her eyes. He had seen it before, in lying criminals. The fear of discovery. His heart sank.
"How dare you," She said quietly, coldly. "How dare you."
"Alison, I didn't mean—"
She raised her hand, wedding ring dull and tarnished-looking on her finger. "I don't want to hear it. I'm going to work."
The door slammed behind her, making the pictures on the wall rattle.
His day, having started off crap, quickly got worse. A triple murder and a robbery came in all before lunchtime, the cases landing neatly in his lap. The robbery was simple enough, he turfed that off on Donavon, but the triple murder was tricky. All doors locked from the inside, no entrances, no way for three people to have been stabbed to death by an intruder. It galled him, especially after Alison's accusations, but he had to call Sherlock. No doubt she would love that when she heard about it. No doubt she would say that after their fight he had run right to his 'lover'.
"Another night on the sofa, Detective Inspector?" Was Sherlock's greeting.
"Can we not just skip all that today?" Greg demanded crossly and folded his arms, temper flaring. "Just work the crime-scene for once, for heaven's sake. And no, actually."
Lying seemed to spark Sherlock's immoral streak, however, and he circled around Greg. "Stiffly held neck, rumpled clothes, bloodshot and baggy eyes, irritable behaviour, defensive stance, quick to anger – that's not like you. All point to another fight with your wife, and another night on the sofa. That's the fourth in a week, am I correct?"
"Sherlock," John hissed warningly, watching everyone else at the crime scene look at their boss curiously, silently agreeing with Sherlock and waiting for his reaction. The air was thick with tension as Greg and Sherlock surveyed each other.
Greg's voice, when he replied, was quiet and filled with barely-supressed anger. "And what can you say about the victim?"
Sherlock looked annoyed that he hadn't managed to provoke more of a response but John hissed for him to leave it alone. He pursed his lips and moved onto the victim, calling them all idiots and demanding Anderson be stripped of his qualifications. Greg glared at those who looked at him until they went back to their jobs dusting for prints and all that forensic stuff. John sidled over to him while Sherlock was quizzing the officers who had been first on the scene.
"You okay?" John asked quietly, looking concerned.
"Fantastic," Greg said flatly, twisting his ring unconsciously around his finger. A moment later he apologised. "Sorry, John. Just… stress. And four hours sleep."
"It's okay," John said with a quick smile. "I live with Sherlock, I'm used to that sort of response."
That made Greg smile, at least.
"Wait," Sherlock said, closely examining one of the bodies. "I know this man."
"Who is he, then?" Greg asked in a voice closer to his normal tone when dealing with Sherlock.
"I don't know. But I've seen him somewhere before. Everyone shut up, I need to go to my mind palace."
John rolled his eyes and muttered "Later" to Lestrade's questioning look. Sherlock closed his eyes and raised his hands, fingers flicking as if he were typing, or scrolling through a touchscreen only he could see. He muttered to himself, frowning, for a couple minutes before his eyes snapped open.
"Ah! Of course. Elegant, simple. Very good."
"Sherlock, just tell us who he is," John said, rubbing his forehead.
"He's one of Mycroft's associates," Sherlock replied. "Lestrade, you might want to say goodbye to your crime scene."
"What? Why?"
"Because it's about to belong to the secret service. Ah, here he is, right on time."
A car pulled up outside the house, sleek and dark, very expensive-looking. A tall man with rusty-red, thinning hair stepped out and brushed his overcoat down meticulously, hanging an umbrella on the crook of his arm. He waved through the window with a smile at the forensics team gawping at him.
Greg quickly walked out, ignoring the fact he was in a forensics gown and looked ridiculous. His meetings with Mycroft Holmes had always been strange, why should this be any different.
"Detective Inspector, good morning," He said pleasantly, eyes skimming over him as he walked.
"Mr Holmes," Greg replied. "I take it you're here to nick my crime scene again?"
"Quite correct," Mycroft smiled. "I apologise for the inconvenience."
"I suppose it has to be done," Greg huffed, folding his arms. "Keep me informed; it is still technically my case."
"Of course, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said courteously, inclining his head. "Insomuch as I can. National security and all that."
Greg nodded with a smile; somehow Mycroft managed to convey wry acceptance, irritation and boredom all in one sentence. And he wasn't a bad bloke, either. Just doing his job, whatever that might be. Their interactions had always been amiable, unlike almost every day dealing with Sherlock where he had to be brought to heel. "All right, well, it's yours now. We'll clear out of your way."
"Thank you, Detective Inspector, your co-operation is greatly appreciated. If it's not too much trouble, would you be amenable to consulting with us on this case? We need a police expert."
"Well, I wouldn't say I was an expert, but I'll help you out, sure," Greg said, just a little flattered. His bad mood was easing away; Mycroft was very good at calming people down, Greg had noticed. His arms dropped back to his sides and his shoulders relaxed a little.
"Excellent," Mycroft beamed, his teeth flashing white for a moment as he smiled. "Would it be alright to call your office and arrange a time?"
"Sure," Greg replied, his own smile flashing for a moment. "See you later."
Mycroft's smile deepened as he watched Greg go back into the house and tell everyone to pack up and leave. Sherlock looked between them both curiously, frowning just a little.
"What?" John asked him, noticing his interest.
"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured. John didn't bother asking again; he obviously wasn't going to explain in this lifetime.
Later, when Greg was thinking about getting some flowers from the corner shop – again – and heading home to smooth things over with Alison when there was a knock at his door.
"Come in," He called wearily, wondering if he should be relieved for the delay or not.
Mycroft peered around the doorframe with a smile. "Bad time, Detective Inspector?"
Greg smiled back, thoughts of his wife slipping away. "No, it's alright. Come in, have a seat."
Greg cleared his desk a bit, shoving things to one side and dumping some more files on the floor, yelling for Donavon not to disturb him. Mycroft smiled and sat down, crossing his legs precisely and adjusting his cuffs. They got to work, looking at preliminary reports and discussing various theories. About an hour into their meeting, Greg's mobile went off.
"Sorry, I need to take this," He said apologetically. The wife wanted a word.
"Take your time," Mycroft said pleasantly and stood outside to give him some privacy.
Greg answered the phone, feeling all the tension he had been carrying around, temporarily alleviated by Mycroft's presence, pile back onto his shoulders again. "Hey, Alison."
"Where are you?"
"I'm caught up at work again," He sighed. "I'm sorry. I—"
"Whatever," She sighed, sounding disappointed. "I'm going to stay with my sister for a couple of nights."
"Alison, wait," Greg said, shocked. "Hang on a minute. If this is about what I said this morning, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I was just tired—"
"No, it's not that. Look, I don't want another fight. I can't handle this right now, Greg. I just… need to be away from you for a bit."
Greg swallowed the hurt her words caused him. "How can I fix this, Alison? Tell me."
She just sighed deeply, a rush of static, and disconnected. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and pressed his hands to his face. Well, his marriage was going down the toilet.
Like it hadn't been for weeks. Months, maybe.
There was a tentative knock on the door and Mycroft peeped around again. "Should we reschedule?" He asked delicately.
Greg looked at his phone, and then at the paperwork they still needed to go over. Then his eyes travelled up to Mycroft's politely empathetic expression, the kindness in his eyes. "No, it's alright," He said with a tight smile. "Let's get this finished."
They had just settled back into work when Donavon came in. "I'm off, Boss," She said tiredly. "What about you?"
"I'm staying for a bit," He said, glancing at Mycroft. "See you tomorrow."
She nodded, looking Mycroft up and down rather rudely. "Give my love to Alison," She said pointedly and left, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Greg clenched his jaw and picked up some papers so he wouldn't worry at his ring. His was polished on the outside alright, from him fiddling with it whenever he and Alison had a fight.
"Dear me," Mycroft said mildly, though he looked vaguely offended.
"Sorry about her," Greg said, running his hands through his hair, making it stick up all over the place. Mycroft blinked in surprise and suddenly grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "What?" Greg asked with trepidation.
"Nothing, Detective Inspector," Mycroft grinned. "Nothing at all."
"You don't have to call me that, you know," Greg said. "Call me Lestrade. Or Greg, whichever."
"Gregory," Mycroft smiled, rolling the syllables around as if he were actually tasting them. "Alright. By all means call me Mycroft, no more of this Mr Holmes nonsense."
Greg grinned and passed him the blood toxicity report; no one ever called him Gregory. Usually he didn't like it, he preferred Greg, but it seemed to fit better in Mycroft's mouth than anyone else's.
They worked for another few hours, and even though they were discussing jealous grudges, possible hate crime angles, and the brutal murder of three people, Greg found himself enjoying it. It wasn't the topic, it was the conversation. Talking to Mycroft felt… different than talking to other people. Part of it was that Holmesian oddity, that extra-penetrating insight, but mostly he was just a good conversationalist, easy to get along with and even slyly witty at times – though they felt just a little guilty at making jokes. It was just nice to be able to talk to someone and not have to explain things all the time, or order them around.
Eventually, though, they had gone over everything either of them could think of with the limited evidence they had, and if a Holmes said there was nothing else, there really was nothing else.
"I'm sorry to have kept you up," Mycroft said, looking at Greg's desk clock with surprise at the time.
Greg waved a hand dismissively with a brief smile; don't worry about it.
"Well, I suppose that brings this meeting to an end," Mycroft continued, for a moment looking almost disappointed before he covered it with a tight smile. "I'll contact you again when we have more evidence; I think we can take the investigation in a better direction now, thank you."
Greg felt just a bit warmed by that. He stood up and firmly shook Mycroft's hand, surprised a little by just how long and thin the politician's fingers were, but not in a delicate way. It was a strong grip. His fingers were so long that they brushed the underside of his wrist. "I'll see you soon, then."
"I look forward to it," Mycroft replied, then suddenly grew hesitant, glancing down uncertainly. "I, ah… I hope you won't be offended if I offer my sympathy?" He said awkwardly.
Greg blinked in confusion before understanding. He flushed a little, heart pounding with dread as he remembered the empty bed he was going home to tonight. "Oh. R-Right. Well, thanks. I appreciate it."
Mycroft smiled awkwardly and took his hand back. "I, ah, I hope everything turns out alright."
"Me too," Greg muttered, but smiled at him as Mycroft left with a wave. He shook his head in wonder; the Holmes' were very strange. Impersonal about nearly everything, but when it came to those awkward things like social interactions they got all… awkward. Mycroft had been better, though. He hadn't tried to show off by telling Lestrade just how he knew about the problems he and Alison were having, simply offered sympathy. It was nice that he cared.
Over the next few days Mycroft regularly dropped into Scotland Yard, leaving messages if Greg was at a crime-scene to reschedule. They talked easily, and Greg couldn't shake the feeling that they were getting closer to the murderer through all their rehashing of scenarios and careful discussion. Alison stayed with her sister, though he called her every day to try and apologise, ask when she was coming back, but she never picked up. He toyed with the idea of going to her sister's house, but thought it would just piss Alison off.
He found himself looking forward to talking with Mycroft, and after missing each other twice – Sherlock had Greg constantly running from one place to another with very little warning – they started meeting up in coffee shops during Greg's lunch. It was a surprisingly easy transition, and it wasn't awkward at all. Mycroft brought the files and Greg bought the coffee.
Eventually, after about two weeks of this, Greg began to have suspicions.
"Mycroft," He said carefully, watching the suited man over the rim of his coffee cup. "Why are we doing this?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"You don't really need a copper's eye on this, you must have teams of criminologists and whatever just a phone call away. So why are we really here? Not that I haven't enjoyed these little chats," He hurried to assure him, flashing him a grin, "But I'm just curious."
Mycroft's expression was blank for a moment before breaking into a wry, slightly sheepish smile. It made him look very attractive, Greg noted dispassionately. "I'm afraid you're right, Gregory, and I must apologise for the small deception." He glanced down at the table uncertainly, absently gathering the crumbs left from his sandwich into a neat pile at the centre of his plate. "I admit that at first I was curious to get to know you, seeing as you've helped and tolerated my brother so well, and when the opportunity presented itself I took it. I hope you won't think it forward of me."
Greg felt like he should be annoyed but was too disarmed by the frankly cute look on Mycroft's face, like a little boy found with his hand in the biscuit tin. A lop-sided smile appeared on his face instead. "Okay, I can deal with that. I like talking to you, anyway, so it's not a problem." He took a sip of his coffee, glancing away awkwardly.
Mycroft hesitated again, carefully shaping the crumb pile into a square. "Gregory, would it be alright if we… ah, continued to meet? I like talking to you as well."
Greg grinned bashfully at his coffee cup. "I'd like that," He said. "It's good to just talk to someone outside work." Then he realised how much of a friendless loner that made him sound and bit his lip.
"I quite agree," Mycroft chuckled. "Our jobs don't really allow us much free time, do they?"
So they kept meeting at lunch, chatting pleasantly about work and topics that afterwards Greg couldn't remember anything about, except that he had enjoyed it.
Mycroft was very charming, in an unconscious and gentlemanly way. Greg felt like he could laugh with him – at work it was kind of discouraged to laugh when there might be a victim's family next door – and really just chat about anything. Talking with Mycroft, he could temporarily forget that Alison hadn't talked to him for two weeks, that he slept alone each night in the bed they had shared for ten years. He could forget the arguments and the stomach-churning suspicion that she was cheating on him.
Aside from that initial offering of sympathy, Mycroft didn't bring up his marital issues. Greg was grateful for it, especially seeing as his failing marriage seemed to be the hot gossip around the office, and comfortable in the knowledge that if he ever wanted to talk about it then Mycroft would listen with that patiently empathetic expression and offer some simple advice that somehow would make everything seem alright.
He was a remarkable man. Greg caught himself admiring him more than once and had to firmly remind himself that he was a married man.
…He could still look though, right?
"Gregory?"
"Hm?"
"You were staring at me."
"Sorry! I was just… thinking," Greg coughed and took a long gulp of coffee, burning his tongue just a bit.
Mycroft rested his chin on his hand and smiled at Greg. "It's alright, I don't particularly mind. It was a lovely expression on your face."
"Huh?" Greg stammered. He wondered what his face had looked like while he was thinking about Mycroft's neat hair being ruffled.
"And it's been a while since someone as handsome as you looked at me like that," Mycroft continued, eyes sparkling mischievously.
Greg's mouth dropped open a little, feeling a horrific blush burning his cheeks. For a few moments all he could think was, Mycroft thinks I'm handsome?
Mycroft chuckled and sipped his tea, watching Greg all the while.
Fuck, say something already, Greg. "Um…" Master of eloquence, you are. "Thanks?" Beautiful. Poetry, in fact. Just go hide yourself in a hole. "S-Sorry, it's been… ages, really, since anyone said something like that to me."
Now you're just repeating what he said. Even if it's true.
Mycroft chuckled again. "Have I made you uncomfortable, Gregory?"
"No, nothing like that," Greg said quickly, looking down to try and hide his grin.
"Good," Mycroft replied, sounding a little relieved. "I was afraid you might not… take well to that comment from another man."
Greg bit his lip for a moment, then looked right in Mycroft's eyes with a wide grin. "Mycroft Holmes, are you flirting with me?"
"Perhaps a little," Mycroft replied, giving that shy smile again.
Greg blinked in surprise and grinned wider; he'd only been joking, but apparently Mycroft wasn't. It didn't really shock him that Mycroft was gay, but it did surprise him that he would casually admit to flirting with him.
He laughed softly and nudged Mycroft's leg under the table. "That's not very gentlemanly of you. Very flattering, though."
"You deserve flattering," Mycroft replied, going to nudge him back and ending up sliding his leg along Greg's, his knee brushing along Greg's inner thigh. Both blushed.
Just then, Greg got a text. "'Scuse me," He mumbled, almost glad of having a chance to come up with how to react.
Meet at St Pancras immediately, suspect is in the gift shop. If he spooks when you arrive, arrest for murder. If not, arrest for shoplifting. SH
Greg frowned, annoyed that his time with Mycroft was going to be cut short – no, his lunch break was going to be cut short. That was why he was annoyed. Not that he wasn't going to see what would happen next with Mycroft's leg so casually between his own.
"Work?" Mycroft asked politely, re-crossing his legs casually so his knee wasn't pressed into Greg's thigh.
"Yeah, sorry," Greg sighed. "Gotta go. Same time tomorrow?"
"Of course," Mycroft said, getting to his feet at the same time as Greg and smiling. "I hope the case goes well."
"Thanks. Have a good day, then."
Greg left the café smiling and ignoring the little voice that whispered he shouldn't have enjoyed flirting with Mycroft. That he shouldn't be flirting at all.
His ring seemed about three sizes too small right then, and he fiddled with it anxiously.
Later that evening, Alison actually picked up when he made his now-customary call, and told him she was ready to come back home. He was delighted of course, and she apologised for treating him so coldly. They talked for a long while, promising they would do better, try to cope better this time. Greg promised to be home early the next day and cook dinner for her as a welcome-home present.
When he met Mycroft for lunch the next day, he fiddled with his ring near-constantly.
"Gregory," Mycroft said hesitantly. "I know you despise it when my brother analyses your behaviour, but I have to ask… is anything the matter? You've been worrying at your ring for some time."
"It's alright," Greg sighed, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup instead. "Um, me and Alison are giving it another go, she's coming home later."
"I see," Mycroft said, looking down at his own plate for a moment. "I'm happy for you," He blurted, belatedly. "I hope that's the end of your troubles."
His words made Greg's chest hurt.
But he swallowed it and smiled, thanked him for being so supportive, and went through the rest of his day trying to be enthusiastic about seeing Alison again. Truth was, he had enjoyed those lunches with Mycroft far more than he had enjoyed being even near Alison for the past… well, he wasn't going to lie, for the past year or so.
My marriage is so fucked.
But he played the happy husband when Alison arrived, hugging and kissing her and serving her dinner, talking about their time apart without alluding to the reason for it. He noticed in a way that would have made Sherlock pleased that she fiddled with her ring when she thought he wasn't looking. He pushed away the feeling that she was regretting coming back to him. He was getting good at pushing those sorts of thoughts away.
They had sex later, the first they'd had in a wince-worthy long time. It wasn't great for either of them, but they lied and complimented each other with false smiles and quickly went to sleep. Not cuddled up together like they had at the start of their marriage, not even holding hands. Turned away, backs to each other.
They argued again in the morning, though Greg desperately didn't want it. She had commented on being sore from their sex, that he hadn't done it right, that he had been awkward and too quick. He obviously didn't care about whether she had enjoyed it as long as he was satisfied. She muttered something about him forgetting she wasn't a man. It had just gone downhill again from there, their promises dashed in less than a day. She yelled that he didn't care, that he only wanted a man, that he had been sleeping with Sherlock while she was away, that he cared too much about his job, that he couldn't cook pasta without making it soggy, that he didn't remember how she liked her coffee… the list of his faults went on and on. Greg walked out of the house with a headache and a tight feeling in his throat, like he was being strangled. He knew he looked a wreck and didn't care.
And to top it all off, it looked like they had a new serial killer to chase. Wonderful.
He tried to look happier for his lunch with Mycroft, but he knew he had failed when Mycroft rested a slightly trembling, nervous hand on his wrist and said softly, "Gregory, if you ever need to talk…"
Greg swallowed thickly and looked down at the tabletop, slumping in his chair a little. Mycroft tightened his grip, long fingers curling around his wrist over his watch and under his cuff, thumb resting along the underside of his arm, a comforting anchor.
Mycroft passed him a starched handkerchief with a patient, understanding expression. It was crisp white cotton, monogrammed in one corner by a small heraldic shield. Greg supposed it was the Holmes crest or something like that. He took it hesitantly, worried that he might somehow soil it. Mycroft made a 'tsk' sound and pressed it firmly into his palm, his hand closing over Greg's for a second.
"Why don't you tell me, Gregory," Mycroft said gently, leaning forwards, giving Greg his undivided attention.
Greg hadn't wanted to admit his marital problems to anyone, had hated it when Sherlock threw it in his face, had hated everyone knowing his failure as a husband. He had wanted to keep it to himself, had brushed Anderson off when he made a similar offer.
But he was feeling like shit and he couldn't take it anymore. And he knew Mycroft would listen without judging. He knew Mycroft would understand.
"I just… I can't do anything to make her happy," He choked out, refusing to meet Mycroft's penetrating gaze. "I try, and I try, and nothing makes a difference."
Mycroft said nothing, just squeezed his wrist reassuringly.
"She might as well just say she's disappointed in me as a husband. She might as well admit she's having an affair. I can't take this, I just can't…"
Greg propped his face on his hand, eyes screwed shut. He pressed his face into his palm, trying to master himself before he did something stupid like break down and start bawling. His tattered pride wouldn't allow him to cry. He wanted to hold on to just that small piece of dignity.
Mycroft squeezed his wrist again, his touch helping Greg to centre himself.
"I want this marriage to work," He said brokenly. "I just want her to be happy. I want to be happy. And I can't even do that… I am a failure."
Mycroft sighed deeply, sounding saddened. "Gregory," He said quietly, "I don't wish to tell you your business, but I can't help but wonder – if you are both so unhappy, why do you want the marriage to work? You've been having these troubles for some time, yes?"
"Over a year, probably," Greg admitted. "And… we married. I've always felt like, something that big, it's a life commitment. I said I'd be her husband through thick and thin and all that, and I don't go back on my word."
Mycroft hesitated a little. "So… you would stay unhappy and cuckolded for the sake of a vow that means less to her than to you?" Greg nodded uncomfortably. "Well, that's very noble of you, Gregory."
"Thanks."
"She doesn't know what she has, your wife."
Greg looked up at him sharply, stunned. Mycroft flushed a little and cleared his throat. "Ahem. My opinion, if it counts at all, is that you need to think of your own happiness, Gregory. Trying to make only her happy has made you both miserable. And if she is being disloyal, it seems she is not willing to make the same effort you are to secure your marriage."
"What are you saying? I should get a divorce because she's cheating, because we argue?"
Mycroft made a calming motion with one hand, doubtless the same motion he would use on a flustered diplomat. "I am saying nothing of the sort. As… as your friend, Gregory, I am saying that you deserve to be happy. Nothing more, nothing less."
Greg looked down, comforted a little by his words.
"I'm afraid I need to go, Gregory," Mycroft said, checking his watch. "A meeting I can't afford to be late for. I would love to help more, but duty calls."
"I understand," Greg nodded with a wan smile. "Thanks, even if only for listening."
Mycroft smiled kindly and brushed his fingers over Greg's wrist briefly before standing. "Anytime. I'll see you tomorrow?"
Greg nodded and watched him go, the edge of his anxiety and anguish dulled somewhat by their meeting. Maybe things weren't so bad. He smoothed his thumb gently over the crest on the handkerchief he was still holding and carefully folded the cotton into his inner jacket pocket. He would return it tomorrow.
He got to thinking – he knew Alison had the afternoon off work today, and the rest of the team seemed to be handling things well. They didn't really need him for the rest of the day, unless some horrific crime had transpired during lunch. Maybe he would drop back home, surprise her. Try and work things out. Again.
His plan was delayed by a meeting with the victim's family and trying to console them as much as he could, telling them that their son/brother/nephew had fought back admirably against his attacker, but had been overpowered, and his assailant had been wielding a knife. A brave boy, very sorry for your loss, my deepest condolences. He managed to get home an hour earlier than usual, though, which was really something.
He was carrying a bouquet of her favourite flowers, a bottle of wine and a box of her favourite chocolates to smooth things over when he arrived. He dimly noticed her coat and shoes had been chucked to the floor, but it wasn't too remarkable. They weren't neat people. Her cardigan was thrown on the floor as well, further along the hallway. A table had been nudged, scraping the wall.
And then he heard the moans and giggles. Unmistakeably Alison's giggles, and the grunts and murmurings of another man. Panting. Exclamations. Praise. Go harder, faster. Yes, that's it.
He dimly registered himself walking forwards, numb. He already knew what he would find, but he went into the living room as if in a daze. Alison and some other man – some young, skinny, boyish looking man – were going at it on the sofa. They didn't notice him, too wrapped up in each other, until he put the bottle of wine onto the coffee table with a loud clank. They startled and Alison looked up at him in horror, legs and eyes wide. The man looked annoyed at being interrupted, a sulky look on his face.
"Greg…" Alison panted, looking afraid. "It's not…" She gave up trying to deny the fact she was shagging this man right in front of him, that his hands were on her thighs and breasts. Instead she shrugged. Uncaring. So what.
Greg said nothing, merely turned around. He quickly and efficiently packed an overnight bag and left, slamming the door just a little. Everything still seemed surreal. He had suspected, had pretty much known she was cheating, but there was something almost viscerally shocking about seeing her fucking that other man. Did their wedding vows mean nothing to her?
He didn't know what to do. He supposed he should check into a hotel for the night – he couldn't face going back to the house later. He didn't want to see her. Worse, didn't want to go home and find she was off with that man. His thoughts were fuzzy, and eventually he wound up outside the closed door of the coffee shop he met with Mycroft every lunch. His phone was in his hand, and the dial-tone was ringing. He was calling Mycroft.
"Gregory?" Mycroft picked up on the third ring, sounding pleasantly surprised. "Is everything alright?"
"Alison, she…" Greg was shocked by how rough his voice sounded, like he was about to cry. He couldn't gather his thoughts, couldn't bring himself to say it. "On the sofa, with… she… I want to talk to you."
"Alright, where are you?" Mycroft said gently. "I'll send a car, we'll talk."
"The coffee shop," Greg said, swallowing hard. "I just wanted to see you, I thought…"
"I quite understand," Mycroft said. "Wait there, I'll be along in about ten minutes. Stay there, Gregory."
"Alright," Greg nodded and hung up dazedly, clutching his overnight bag. He had been in shock like this before, on his first week of the job and his first murder. The stench of the blood… he hadn't panicked, but he'd withdrawn like this. Recognising the symptoms made it a little easier.
Soon a sleek black car pulled up and a chauffeur opened the door for him. He got in, dimly seeing the smooth leather seating and the aura of luxury that exuded from the very seats. He was more concerned with seeing Mycroft sitting there, precise as always in a different, more formal suit than he had worn to lunch and a sympathetic twist to his lips. Greg sank into the leather next to him and stared down at the floor as the car pulled off. Mycroft placed a hand on his knee and said nothing as they drove, waiting for Greg to start the conversation.
Eventually Greg opened his mouth. "Where are we going?"
"My house," Mycroft explained. "Better than a hotel, don't you think?"
It took a moment for that statement to filter through the haze in Greg's brain. "Oh. Thanks, Mycroft, there's really no need, I don't want to put you to trouble—"
"It is no trouble," Mycroft said firmly, tightening his grip on Greg's knee. "Whatsoever."
Mycroft's house was huge. A real estate of its own in the middle of London, but not garishly so. It blended in remarkably well with its Victorian and Edwardian surrounds. From the outside it could just as easily be a large, impressive set of offices for a law firm as a home for a single influential man. Mycroft kept a light touch on his shoulder and steered him inside. He was soon sat down on a deep leather sofa, his coat and bag gently removed and put on another chair, and a glass of whiskey pressed into his hand. Mycroft sat down beside him and put his hand back on Greg's knee.
"I'm very sorry, Gregory."
With just those simple words he undammed the tight barriers in Greg's heart. He told Mycroft everything, all his suspicions, all the fights, the accusations, the fight they'd had that morning, the scene he had walked into…
It took him a few minutes to realise he was crying and pressed into Mycroft's chest as the man rubbed down his back comfortingly, not saying a word and just letting him cry. He knew he should feel annoyed to be crying, so weak, but he didn't care. It felt good to cry, and it felt good to feel Mycroft's arms around him. It felt good to know someone cared that he was upset.
Eventually he calmed down enough to stop crying and slumped against Mycroft, unwilling to break the embrace. "I'm sorry," he said weakly. "I don't know what came over me. I hope I didn't interrupt something important."
"It will keep until tomorrow."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologise, Gregory," Mycroft interrupted him a little sharply. "You need to stop apologising for other people's mistakes. There is nothing shameful in being upset."
"Thank you, then," He mumbled into Mycroft's chest.
Mycroft's arms tightened around him and his chin rested on Greg's hair gently. "Is there anything I can do to help you, Gregory?"
He didn't say what sprang to his mind, Don't let me go, merely shook his head minutely. He almost felt Mycroft's smile in his hair as Mycroft held him tighter.
Much, much later and after several glasses of whiskey Greg sat up on his own, flushed but considerably calmer than he had been. Mycroft tugged his straight shirt and smiled gently at him. "Shall I show you your room? It is quite late, and I'm sure you would like some rest."
Actually, Greg was very tired, he realised. He nodded and followed Mycroft up a few floors and along a corridor. He carefully marked the locations of paintings and statues to remember the way back to the front room.
"Here, this ought to be comfortable," Mycroft said, stopping outside a door opposite a painting of a pile of dusty books by a wine glass. "Sleep well, Gregory. I'll see you tomorrow."
He smiled and reached out, squeezing Greg's fingers quickly. Head still fuzzy from shock, alcohol and weariness, his emotions took over again, inhibitions pushed back by the whiskey. He stepped close and kissed Mycroft firmly on the lips, something he had – now he admitted it – been wanting to do for quite some time. Mycroft kissed him back right away, meeting his passion with an eager heat of his own. It was wonderfully different – he hadn't kissed anyone other than Alison for ten years. Mycroft's lips were thinner, his face was narrower and longer, his tongue and mouth moved differently and tasted much different, unique to the man. Several moments of sweet bliss passed as their mouths got to know each other.
Mycroft pulled back slightly, breathing a little faster than normal. "No, Gregory, this isn't right." He said softly, regretfully.
"But I know you liked it—"
"Very much," Mycroft breathed, smoothing his thumb gently over Greg's parted and moistened lips. "Very much. And as much as I would love to keep doing this, to go in there with you or take you to my room, it is not right. I feel I would be taking advantage of you, in such a state. You would regret this in the morning."
Greg kissed Mycroft's thumb, knowing he was right but at the same time wanting nothing more than to kiss him again. Mycroft raised a tentative hand and ran his fingers gently through Greg's short, silvery hair. There was a gentle, regretful look in his eyes. Like he knew he was throwing away the chance he'd been waiting for, but knew it was the right thing to do. And Mycroft lectured him on not being selfish enough.
"Good night, Gregory," He said softly and, with a quick kiss to Greg's forehead, walked away up the corridor towards what were presumably his rooms.
Greg went inside the room assigned to him, feeling hollow. He knew that, when he sobered up and got his head back on properly, he would be glad they hadn't given in to their impulses. He didn't need the extra complications on top of dealing with Alison. And he would have felt like he had sunk as low as Alison if he had slept with Mycroft. He wasn't a cheater, even if he really wanted to feel what was under all those layers and run his hands through Mycroft's neat hair and feel their bodies pulse together...
Alison was only partly right – he wanted to be with a Holmes. Just the elder Holmes.
The next morning they acted as if the kiss had never happened, though there was a difference in the way they spoke together, just a touch less formal and more friendly. They breakfasted together and shared a sleek black car to Scotland Yard.
"If Sherlock gives you trouble today, say 'pirate ship' to him. That should quiet him." Mycroft smiled as Greg got out of the car. "The car will pick you up later." Greg waved at him as it pulled away, taking Mycroft to his first meeting.
The next few days were a combination of hell and joy; the hell was the gossip generated in the office when Sherlock deduced that Greg had spent the night at his brother's house, and the – correct, dammit – implications of this, and trying to sort through what he wanted to do next with Alison. She didn't call or text, and he returned the silence. He dimly remembered Mycroft telling him to be more selfish, to think of his own needs. Well he was sick of compromising and bending over backwards for her and getting nothing in return. She was in the wrong here, not him. The joy was in talking to Mycroft over dinner and realising that he was a damn good friend. Greg thanked him every day for letting him stay at his house, and Mycroft smiled each time and said, "I've got the space, after all."
Next week he saw Alison at the marriage counsellor's office, as they had agreed. It was not a good session, though Greg was gratified that the counsellor told Alison that she was being too harsh on him, and that she was most definitely at fault for having the affair. It took several more sessions before they even raised the issue of Greg going home again. Alison promised that the affair was over, that she was sorry, that she would be more supportive in the future. She seemed genuinely sorry, and he thought that maybe things really would be different this time. He felt a little guilty about kissing Mycroft, but it hadn't gone anywhere and it had only been for a few minutes. He wanted Mycroft, he couldn't deny that now, but he felt like he owed it to Alison to give their marriage one more try.
Mycroft congratulated him, and said he was sorry Greg was going home. They had a glass of wine together after dinner, and Mycroft went to bed a little earlier than was his norm. Greg understood, because he felt the same way – he was glad things with Alison were good, but he would miss staying with Mycroft. The relief of the bubbling undercurrent of sexual tension would be nice, but at the same time he would miss the feeling of being admired, of being desired, and of desiring someone else back just as much. He would miss sitting with Mycroft after dinner chatting the night away.
He and Alison worked hard on their marriage, trying to find a better dynamic for them. For the first few weeks everything was wonderful. Then, on Christmas Day, Sherlock had pointed out what Greg had been blinding himself to since their sessions with the counsellor: that she was cheating on him again. The signs were exactly the same, but he hadn't wanted to feel so upset about his suspicions again, so he had ignored the signs. When he later confronted her about it, she didn't bother to pretend. A mask seemed to drop away and she calmly admitted it.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"You were mumbling in your sleep last night," She said neutrally, examining her nails. "Who's Mycroft?"
"He's a friend. A good friend – I stayed with him when we were apart."
"Anything happen?"
"Just a kiss, nothing else. I was pretty drunk."
It was as if they were discussing the weather. She nodded, not looking disappointed or betrayed as she once would have. She didn't shout or yell. She just looked tired, accepting. They were both so damn tired of this constant conflict. After a few moments she chuckled humourlessly.
"Greg, let's stop this. We would both be happier apart. We've tried, and it's not working."
Greg sighed bitterly. "I'm sorry I couldn't be a better husband, Alison."
"You are a good man, Greg. I'm sorry I hurt you so much." She kissed him once on the lips and left.
The next month or so passed in a blur of meetings with solicitors. The divorce was done with surprising ease; Alison attested to adultery, the marriage counsellor gave a report on their troubles and how unhappy they had both been, and soon the papers were all signed. Apparently it would have been much messier if they had children, with custody and all that.
The day the papers were signed, Greg called Mycroft and said he had some news. At Mycroft's house, he simply smiled and firmly placed his ring on a table. Then he cupped Mycroft's cheek and kissed him tenderly. They went quickly to the bedroom, passion growing from months of being bottled up. They explored each other's bodies eagerly and gently, not wanting to rush anything but at the same time desperate for this to finally happen. It had been more than ten years since Greg had slept with another man, and just the experience was intoxicating, never mind Mycroft's own wicked hands or charming body. Their first time was quick and heady, neither of them able to control themselves once things got more intimate. They didn't get much sleep, however, as they spent the night trying again and thoroughly enjoying each other.
Sherlock threw a fit the morning after, apparently disturbed by the concept of his brother having sex. Greg didn't mind, though, he was far too happy to care about his sulk. Greg had been planning to get a flat once he and Alison were officially divorced, but Mycroft rather casually suggested he not waste money and just move in with him. Greg was a little worried it was too soon, but his fears were soon alleviated. It seemed living together during Greg and Alison's estrangement had done them good.
Everyone noticed the change. Greg became happier, more engaged in his cases, more supportive of his team. His co-workers commented that whatever had happened must have been good, and only a few noticed without being told that he no longer wore his wedding ring, and that every morning and evening he arrived and left in a black car with a smile on his face and a spring – or sometimes a limp that he looked equally happy about – in his step.
No doubt Mycroft could have come up with a long list of words to describe their relationship, but Greg had always valued simplicity. They were very happy together, and that was that. Perfect.
There C: I wanted to make it more Mystradey and more stuff about Mycroft, but I also wanted to tell it from Greg's POV, so... *shrug* May be rewritten in the future depending on time and willpower.
If you'd take a moment to review I'd really appreciate it C: Hope you enjoyed.