A/N: This is a gift for the lovely kazvl on tumblr, as part of the Summer Mystrade Exchange. :D I combined a couple of her prompts and turned it into something short and fluffy. I'm sorry I couldn't do something longer! I hope you like it!
Mycroft leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the smooth, damp skin of his lover's shoulder. "Scoot forward," he murmured softly, a smile curving his lips as Greg obeyed.
"I'm sorry," Greg said roughly, apologetic at the same time. He did not turn to look at Mycroft, his eyes focused on the water surrounding him in the bath. Carefully Mycroft lathered up the soap to wash Greg's back, allowing only the slightest amount of the tension he felt to show on his face.
"For what?" he asked, the suds gathering on his long fingers. Starting with Greg's shoulders, he dug fingers into tense muscles, pleased when he received a pained groan in response. He could feel the muscles unwind underneath his touch. Working the soap in as he traveled downward, trailing over strong shoulder blades. They protruded too prominently for Mycroft's liking; his lover had been working far too much lately and not eating nearly enough.
"You're going to make me say it?" Greg tilted his head forward, although he was careful to ensure that his face was out of the water.
"Greg, you don't need to apologise for that," Mycroft chided, fingers warm on Greg's middle now, tracing the bottom of the trapezius muscle before shifting farther down to the latissimus dorsi, fingertips soothing the obliques on his sides. Each movement was deliberate, and he could feel Greg continue to loosen underneath the soft caresses.
"I acted like a right bastard when you came in," Greg muttered, his tone so self-deprecating that Mycroft's heart clenched. "I lost my temper."
"Yes, you did," Mycroft agreed mildly, gently cleaning Greg's lower back and skimming the whorls of his fingertips over the top of his arse. Next he cupped his hands and sluiced water over the expanse of Greg's back, leaning in and pressing a kiss to each inch of clean, wet skin.
"Will that - will that happen often?" Greg's voice cracked, his hesitation more than obvious to anyone in the room. Even the most dimwitted of forensic technicians would have noticed it, and Mycroft was anything but.
"There will be occasions where I will have to step in and remove a case from your jurisdiction, yes," Mycroft said quietly, examining Greg's glowing skin with a quiet contentment. Now, if only he could get the rest of him to take a break. Greg had been as tense as a coiled snake since he had arrived home.
Earlier in the day Mycroft had received word that a case of some minor importance to a minor part of the government had made its way into Greg's caseload and had to be removed. As their relationship was generally a well-kept secret, Mycroft had accepted the duty with no hesitation. What he had not anticipated was Greg's reaction to Mycroft's supposed invasion of his work confidence. Or however Greg chose to frame it.
Greg had seen it as some slight against him, had taken it as Mycroft not believing that Greg could handle such a complex case. Mycroft had tried to explain why he was doing what he was doing, but the details were confidential and their relationship only three months along. The physical side of things were fine - more than fine, if Mycroft was honest - but the emotional aspect was lagging behind.
While Greg wasn't Mycroft's first male partner, he was the first in over ten years. As his career advanced, there simply had not been enough time for liasons of the sexual sort. Too many were offended by Mycroft's inability to devote more time to them, convinced that he was cheating when he would disappear for days on end with little to no warning. Mycroft had sworn off any sort of romantic relationship not long after his second long-term partner had thrown something at him. He did have to admit that he did not have a knack for successful relationships.
Greg, however. Greg was different. The first time that Mycroft had met him was three days after Sherlock had been arrested for cocaine possession while trying to break into a crime scene. Even then there was something about the graying Detective Inspector, something captivating even in the frown he turned on an intoxicated Sherlock. There was no hatred, merely some kind of deep sadness, regret that something so brilliant was shining so dully. For once, Mycroft had found someone who could see what he saw. See Sherlock's future, both the good and bad.
"You're thinking." Greg's soft voice broke into Mycroft's reminiscing, and he smiled ruefully.
"Yes," he agreed softly, wrapping his arms about Greg's shoulders and tugging him back so that he was leaning fully against Mycroft's chest, hips settled in the V of Mycroft's legs as they relaxed in the long bathtub. "About you. About when we met."
"I never would have taken you for a romantic, Myc." Greg's ragged chuckle soothed Mycroft's soul like a balm, and he squeezed Greg, reassuring himself that it was truly the DI in front of him. "I'm just a tired old copper who lost it when you did something reasonable. I didn't even stop to ask why, I just assumed." Mycroft felt Greg's hands ball into fists and he allowed his hands to drift down Greg's body until they were next to Greg's.
"Greg, you're human," Mycroft reminded him, deft fingers attempting to persuade the fists to unclench. Eventually he was successful and he took Greg's hands in his, holding them gently. "And you are not a tired old copper," he said, chiding. "You are you, and that is all I expect. Flaws and all."
"I wish I knew when you were lying," Greg muttered, head tilting forward until his nose nearly touched the bathwater. Mycroft took it as the invitation it was and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Greg's neck, nuzzling the damp skin and inhaling Greg's unique scent. The downside to the quiet peace between them was that it allowed his mind to wander, to go to places it shouldn't go.
Mycroft wished he could say that he would never lie to Greg. Wished even more that if he said it, it could be true. However, his job required certain concessions and he had to do what he had to do. Greg knew that too, understood Mycroft's obligations and what he had to give up to tend to what he was needed for. "I try not to lie to you," he admitted. "There are times I must, but of all people, I feel you deserve my honesty."
Greg was quiet for a minute, seeming to ponder what Mycroft had said. While they had known each other for four years, Greg hadn't separated from his wife until a year ago. Mycroft had waited what he felt was a reasonable amount of time before making his move, only to realize after two frustrating months that Greg wasn't understanding his attempts at seduction. Which was logical, as Mycroft was pretty certain that he was rubbish at seducing people, especially someone as wonderful as the Detective Inspector. It had been surprising, however, the night that Greg had pressed him up against the wall near a crime scene and kissed him. Mycroft had been glad for the end of such rubbish as seduction attempts and had no objections to an incident.
"Thanks," Greg said simply. He leaned his head back into the crook of Mycroft's neck, and the way he looked up at his boyfriend was so warm that Mycroft feared he would melt into a puddle of goo in the bath.
They laid together, just floating, until both men had pruny fingers and toes. It was only then that Mycroft drained the tub and stepped out, grabbing a towel for Greg before using one to dry himself off. While he was able to go through the mechanical motions, his mind clamoured and clanged, racing so fast that Mycroft could not stem the flow of data in his mind, discordant and troublesome. Thoughts tumbled through his brain like water through parted fingers, scattered and disconnected. Although Greg seemed to be content with Mycroft's explanation, seemed to be fine with the way things were going, Mycroft was not wholly certain it was not an act. Was this something that was going to smoulder until it destroyed their relationship? It was the first assignation he had taken upon in which there was such a conflict in their work, and he was uncertain as to how it would influence any attempts at going further that he made.
Greg reached out and took the towel from Mycroft's trembling fingers. Mycroft closed his eyes, accepting. Gently, Greg finished toweling him off, careful to keep a hand on his shoulder, grounding the taller man. Sherlock had long thought that he had the monopoly on mental chaos; Mycroft had merely learned how to manage his better. "How's your head, Myc?" Greg leaned forward to press a soft kiss to Mycroft's collarbone before bending down to dry his legs. Sometimes the never ending chaos still got overwhelming, and that caused migraines that sent Mycroft to bed for as long as he could tolerate to stay home. Since that was rarely long enough for the migraine to subside, he would resort to turning the lights dim in his office and limiting the people that would go in and out.
"Dizzy," Mycroft murmured, his concentration focused solely on the warm hand on his body. In the short time they had been together, Greg had proved himself irreplaceable. He was nothing like Mycroft had expected in a partner, but had turned out to be everything he needed. Mycroft had never responded to someone else in that way, had never felt so grounded by another human being. All Greg had to do was touch him and his body swung around to align itself to the DI. Greg might joke that he was an old copper, past his prime, but Mycroft had to disagree. He was what Mycroft needed, what Mycroft had been waiting his whole life for. It was just not something he could yet put into words.
The contact disappeared, leaving Mycroft feeling oddly disoriented. His eyes opened just as he felt Greg kneel in front of him, and he looked down to see Greg arranging the cotton pyjama bottoms so that Mycroft could get them on without bending over. "Left foot," Greg said softly, tapping the requisite ankle. Obediently Mycroft lifted his left foot, allowing Greg to slip on the trousers. They repeated with the other leg, and Greg slid the cotton up and settled it on Mycroft's hips.
Greg was, of course, the only one to ever know that Mycroft Holmes preferred to sleep without pants on. He was never daring enough to do so in his suits, but at home, at night, he would sleep without pants underneath his trousers. It helped that when Greg was over, there was an extra reason to do so. Sex was always easier to initiate when one had fewer articles of clothing to remove. "Stay," Mycroft said as Greg stood up. The policeman was still naked, his pyjamas held loosely in his hand.
"Of course," Greg agreed, a soft smile on his face. He ghosted a hand over Mycroft's middle, reassuring, and pulled on his bottoms. They were Mycroft's, and slightly looser around the middle than the politician had expected. He stared at the way they draped on Greg's hip bones, threatening to show more than was polite in public. Not that Mycroft had any intention of allowing Greg to go out in public dressed like that. He snorted at the thought, drawing an amused grin from his boyfriend.
Without saying anything Mycroft slipped his hand into Greg's and they walked to Mycroft's bedroom. Greg stayed over a couple of nights a week, and Mycroft stayed over at Greg's two more. When Mycroft was able to, of course, and not in some foreign country. Essentially they spent as much time together as possible. Greg gently nudged Mycroft underneath the duvet and curled up with his back towards the taller man. Mycroft pulled Greg's back closer to him, settling the DI against his chest. He draped a hand over Greg's middle, his lips nuzzling the nape of Greg's neck as his eyes fluttered closed. They slept best like this, spooned together, both facing the door. It lent a sense of security to both of them. Not one that was needed, with the level of security in Mycroft's flat, but they slept better regardless.
Greg slowly became pliant in his arms, his breathing evening out as he slipped into sleep. Mycroft sighed against the skin of Greg's neck, a whisper of an exhalation. He would never get over the feeling of Greg against him, skin against skin, warmth from the long bath still pouring off his body. "I think I might love you," Mycroft admitted in the barest hint of a whisper. It was okay to say things like that when Greg was asleep, Mycroft reminded himself. Eventually he could work up to saying it out loud.
Mycroft was on the verge of tipping over the border into dreamland, his arms loose around Greg's middle, when he heard it. "Good," Greg murmured, his voice as soft as Mycroft's had been, thick with sleep. "Me too."