A/N: Okay, so I just want to throw this out here: I'm probably going to write a sequel to this, if there's any interest, about how Greg manages to melt Mycroft completely. Is anybody out there interested in that? This is a quick little fic, not too much substance, but I like where it's going. Let me know if you want more, and I will happily oblige!
"Hey there, Iceman. Welcome to the party." Mycroft Holmes froze at the title, not one he'd given himself though he recognized it, and he slowly turned toward the man who'd spoken the words. He recognized the voice, though the nickname was a first for this man. Not that he blamed him.
"Detective Inspector." Nodding to the man who stood beside the door, exhaling a thick curl of cigarette smoke into the air, Mycroft set the point of his umbrella against the ground and silently braced himself for the words he was sure would come. He and Gregory Lestrade had become friends of a sort during Sherlock's "dead" years, but as soon as Sherlock had come back, the man had simply quit talking to him. There had been no phone calls, no texts, nothing. The politician had assumed that the other man was simply too angry, but it wasn't just anger in his voice. There was also a lingering air of betrayal and sadness, which Mycroft didn't understand.
Neither Holmes brother was particularly good at emotion. For all the areas in which they excelled, that was one handicap they were not able to overcome with their usual flair. But Sherlock had John to help him, at least. Mycroft had no one. He'd thought that it was going to be different, when he'd begun to talk with Greg. He'd even begun to share things about himself, things that no one else knew.
And then, just like smoke through a keyhole, like the clouds of smoke that were already dissipating in the air around them, that dream had disappeared because of the return of his brother. It was a bittersweet thing for Mycroft, and he'd been hoping to put off the consequences of it for a few more weeks. Helping Sherlock adjust to his life again, and helping him navigate the difficult waters with John and reach a compromise that they could both live with, had been an exhausting addition to his already complicated schedule.
The party invitation had come from John, of course, as thanks for bringing Sherlock back alive. Mycroft hadn't intended to come, but when Anthea had seen the text on his phone, which she'd been watching due to a meeting with American diplomats, she'd insisted that he come. She'd even gone to the liberty of clearing his schedule for that night, and until lunch time the next day. He'd had no choice, then. And he hadn't confessed the real reason for his reluctance to come.
Now, that reason was standing in front of him, taking a last drag from a cigarette, his eyes locked on Mycroft's the entire time, before he dropped the butt to the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. The "iceman," as he'd been dubbed, had to resist the urge to flinch when it occurred to him that crushing was probably what Gregory wanted to do to him, right about then.
It hurt. Everything hurt, since Greg had disappeared from his life. But he knew better than to voice that. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment to clear all emotion out of them, and faced the cop head on. If he wanted to hit him, as John had Sherlock, or verbally lash at him, whatever revenge he wanted to take, Mycroft would give him. Maybe then he would be able to sleep, or feel like he could breathe, over the guilt that had overwhelmed him ever since he'd realized that he truly cared for this man, more than just as someone who needed to be entertained until Sherlock returned so his brother could resume his life.
"How did you do it?" The DI demanded, and Mycroft sighed. Sherlock hadn't told him about the plan they'd worked out at the absolute last minute, relying on the help of that mousy but sweet girl Molly. He opened his mouth, but before he could, Lestrade held a hand up, shaking his head at whatever he saw in Mycroft's eyes.
"No. You misunderstand me, I think. I'm not asking how Sherlock pulled off his magic trick. I'm asking you, how did you do it? How the hell did you do it? How did you look at me every week, watch me mourn, and say nothing? I understand John; he needed to hear the truth from Sherlock. But I thought that you and I were friends, Mycroft. Or should I even call you that?"
The cop was fast losing his composure, and he pulled out his pack of cigs with shaking hands and tapped one out, trying twice before managing to finally light up on the third try, inhaling a breath of harsh smoke that wasn't good for him but felt necessary, in that moment. He'd been trying to quit, really he had, but this was just too much. He felt betrayed, though he hadn't realized he cared this much about Mycroft until the news had hit him.
Greg had actually physically been ill when he'd realized that Mycroft had known, all along, and lied by omission every time he poured his heart out about his guilt. There was no way that the man who was basically the British Government wouldn't have known what his brother was planning. The elegance of it all actually suggested he had had a hand in it. And he'd said nothing.
He wanted to hate him. He really did. But even as he spat the words at him, he realized he was hoping for an answer that would make it okay, somehow. He wanted to believe in Mycroft the way John believed in Sherlock; completely, fully, committed with body, mind… and heart. His questions might have seemed rhetorical, but they were actually a plea for words that would help him understand this. He hadn't slept in days, except for an hour or two here and there in his office, and he'd resisted the rush of nicotine for longer than normal because his stomach had already been rolling.
Once he'd gotten himself under control, Greg had come here, invited by Sherlock and John to celebrate the consulting detective's return. John had, surprisingly, not been the one to invite him. Sherlock had apparently been touched by the DI's efforts on his behalf in the years since The Fall enough to actually find the energy to personally send him the text. When he'd realized it was a party, he'd done his best to mingle, but the weight of the silence between Greg and Sherlock's older brother had soon had him making excuses about needing to step outside, and he'd been here for perhaps half an hour, methodically working his way through a pack of cigarettes and occasionally just staring at the cloudy sky, waiting for the rain to come.
"I… Gregory. I never meant…" Greg blinked when he realized Mycroft was lost for words. It wasn't the first time, certainly, but to see him quite so flustered was a surprise. There was something lost in Mycroft's eyes, and almost against his own will, Greg found himself thinking of this man once again as his friend, hopeless with emotion but always there to listen and take the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now, his eyes didn't show reserved warmth, or interest, or distant amusement, but they weren't as empty as most people would assume.
John had once told Greg that with Sherlock, emotions were in the little gives, not in the grand gestures. The Holmes brothers had learned their crafts well, but unless one actually was a sociopath, feelings always managed to find their way to the surface. Mycroft's eyes weren't bleeding emotion, exactly, but neither were they icy and calm. And his voice, when next he spoke, wasn't quite unaffected either. It was a fraction quieter than normal, and just a bit rougher.
"May I have one of those?" He gestured to the cigarettes with a tilt of his head, and Greg realized that it was because his hands were clenched into fists, one at his side, one curled around his umbrella handle. His knuckles were paler than normal, though not quite white, not yet. Shrugging in a way he hoped seemed nonchalant, Greg tapped one of the last cigs into his hand and put it between his fingers, lighting the tip before stepping into Mycroft's comfort zone, making the other man's mercurial eyes widen a fraction.
"Open up." Greg murmured low, gratified when Mycroft opened his mouth, lips trembling ever so slightly before closing around the cigarette. The cherry glowed red when he exhaled, and the politician's hand came up to hold the thing like a professional. The DI remembered being surprised the first time he'd seen the younger man smoking, standing outside his flat at midnight waiting for him to get home so he could make sure he actually did get in okay. Greg had been touched that night, and amused, and not drunk enough to miss the way Mycroft blushed ever so slightly when he took the cigarette from him and took a puff before passing it back.
That night stuck out in his memory for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that after that, he and Mycroft had passed the cig back and forth between them until it was gone. They'd also really talked that night, for the first time, though Mycroft had fallen silent every time Greg mentioned his brother. Now, he thought he knew why.
His own fag gone, he realized that Mycroft's was only halfway finished. Reaching out, as had become habit over the past couple of years, Greg snagged it from between his lips and took a drag for himself, the gesture meant to remind the other man of their past. Judging by the way he sucked in a breath, the reminder had worked.
"So are you gonna answer my questions, or are we just going to stand here smoking all night?" At this, Mycroft blinked, and Lestrade could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he replayed their conversation, and Greg's harsh questions, and tried to find an answer. The fact that he was really trying, not just giving him a look that said he should know better, gave the cop hope he hadn't dared let himself have since John had texted to tell him Sherlock was home.
"It's… difficult to explain, I suppose." The words might have sounded cold, but Greg could see Mycroft trying to put it together in a way that would make sense to him. The hope started to burn a little brighter, though he knew it was too soon to let himself get carried away by it. He knew better.
"When we realized that Sherlock needed to take the fall, and make it look real, we took extra precautions that those he most cares for would not know the truth. In fact, anyone that we couldn't trust to act their part perfectly had to be left out. This was especially true of John, Mrs. Hudson… and you." Pausing here, Mycroft snagged the cigarette back, almost fumbling it when his finger brushed against Greg's lips. Taking a breath and a drag to calm himself, he continued.
"There were assassins, instructed by that damned Irishman to take the three of you out if there was even a chance that Sherlock was alive. So to the world, and to you three most of all, that had to be the truth. No matter what pain you went through, we told ourselves that it would be worth it in the end to save your lives. While you could live without him, you see, he was not sure that he could live in a world without you. John most of all, obviously, but he… needs you."
"So was that why you hung around and kept an eye on the three of us? I know you paid the rent for 221B even after John told you to go to hell, I know you checked on Mrs. Hudson every week, and you… Well, you spent time with me. Was that all part of the act?"
Mycroft closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a last inhale of smoke. Handing the cig over wordlessly, he struggled to find the right words. Eventually, he decided on the one thing he wasn't sure he'd ever offered anyone: the complete truth, with no obfuscation. He met the DI's gaze almost against his will, and ripped away his shields, letting his feelings show. All the pain, sorrow, regret, guilt, and hope he was feeling swirled in his eyes while his body trembled ever so slightly. He saw Greg taking it all in with a shocked expression, and found his lips curling up in a sad half smile.
"I have always detested sentiment. It was I who told Sherlock, time and again, that love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Not only because I had always seen that to be true, but also because I wanted to protect my brother. He is fragile in a way that few people understand and nobody but me even made a real effort to get through his awkwardness to the man he is inside until John Watson. I feared that the doctor would be the death of him, but it was only after The Fall that I realized the truth: Caring about John gave Sherlock the strength to travel the world and disassemble a madman's empire, but more than that, it gave him the strength to return. Love saved my brother."
Looking away because this next part was going to be impossible to say if Greg kept looking at him with compassion in his eyes, after everything he'd done to the poor man, Mycroft trained his gaze on the wreckage of spent cigarettes scattered around the cop's feet as he forced the words out.
"I let myself hope, perhaps even believe, that it might be able to do the same for me. I might have started out meeting with you in order to keep you in good condition for Sherlock's return, but as the weeks passed, I found myself wanting to do so because it made me happy. And then I realized that there was little I wouldn't say, do, or reveal in order to hear you laugh, or share another cigarette or all night phone call with you.
"I am a stranger on these roads others so often walk, Gregory, but I am not as naïve as my brother. I am well aware that what I feel for you is not obligation or duty, or anything of the kind. Perhaps I started out as a placeholder for my brother, but now, I find myself hoping that you can forgive me for having kept this from you, because it was necessary to save your life and I was too selfish to risk losing you to a bullet when for the first time in my life, I understand what it is to be alive."
Eyes blazing with emotion, the politician gripped the handle of his umbrella tighter still when he realized what the burn behind his eyes was. He hadn't experienced it in years, but he knew, all the same, that he was about to embarrass himself in front of this incredible man by crying.
And then somehow, the world shifted, and Greg's arms were wrapped around him tight, holding him close while he tossed the cig into the gutter so he could rub his hands soothingly up and down Mycroft's back. The politician froze for a moment, but then relaxed completely, letting the cop hold him. Gregory was a better man than he would ever be. This wasn't a ploy, or a tool for manipulation to be used when convenient. If he was in Greg's arms, it was because the man genuinely wanted him there.
Blindsided by the realization, he nonetheless found himself clinging to the older man, burying his face against his shoulder and inhaling the scent of stale cigarettes, paper, and gunpowder that was uniquely Gregory. His hands fisted in the back of the man's jacket and he held on, breathing in and out, until he was calm again.
When he was composed again, Mycroft reluctantly loosened his hold on the cop, who let him step back and watched with quiet eyes as he smoothed his hands down his suit, trying to straighten out the small wrinkles that had formed from their close contact.
"What happens now?" Mycroft asked, looking unsure. Greg smiled softly, because he finally understood why he'd continued to hold onto hope when anyone else would have simply raged at this man and walked away. He could only hope that Mycroft felt the same; the choice would, ultimately, be up to him now.
"Now, whatever you want happens. We can go up to the party, or you could let me take you out to dinner." The words were casual, but there was something behind them that the politician caught instantly.
"Excuse me?" His mouth was suddenly dry, and he licked his lips to try and moisten them. When Greg followed the small move with his eyes, Mycroft realized that the undertone he'd heard was exactly what he'd thought.
"You heard me, Mycroft." Greg's voice was patient but with an undercurrent of almost predatory amusement, as if he found something about humoring the politician with a repeat was humorous. "We can go to the party, or you can let me take you out."
"As a date?" The younger man asked to clarify, barely resisting the urge to hold his breath as he waited for the answer. He was not, he reminded himself, a teenager.
"Yes. The choice is yours, Mycroft." The DI said, smiling a little before reaching up and cupping the side of his face. A rough textured thumb swept back and forth absently over a cheekbone, not quite as well defined as his little brother's but every bit as elegant, and he felt the younger man leaning ever so slightly into his touch.
"I am going to kiss you now. This is not a question, or even a request. I've wondered how you taste for the longest time." Stepping in close, Greg angled Mycroft's face with gentle pressure, and the other man watched him with wide eyes and he leaned in and brushed their lips together, resisting the urge to push for more when he knew, somehow, that this enigmatic man had never done this before. He moved his lips slowly, letting Mycroft get used to him, and pulled back before he started to feel his control slipping. He nearly moved back when the other man let out a small sound of shocked pleasure, but he found the strength to resist.
If he was going to be Mycroft's first, he was going to show the man that he was treasured. Where with anyone else he might simply have taken, he had requested with more gentleness than he had ever shown any other prospective lover, even his ex-wife. The tenderness he felt for Mycroft was fathomless, it seemed, and gave him the strength to show care where before he would simply have plundered.
Reading all of this in his eyes and in the caress of the hand that still hadn't left the side of his face, Mycroft worked up all his courage before reaching up to mirror Greg, moving forward to repeat the kiss.
When the parted the second time, they searched one another's eyes for what seemed like ages before Mycroft finally broke the silence.
"We will enjoy our night far more if we take this somewhere else, I think. As I never went in, I won't need to say goodbyes, and you've been gone long enough that I doubt they might even think you're coming back. We can take my car. And Gregory? I am pretty sure that I owe you dinner. Though it is still a date."
Greg found himself grinning hugely, a laugh burbling out of him as jubilance lifted his soul. On impulse, he reached out and took the hand not curled around the umbrella in his as they walked toward the car. Instead of pulling away or stopping, as Greg was half afraid he would do, Mycroft squeezed his hand gently and retained possession of it. In that moment, they both knew they would be all right. And as Greg's fears disappeared, something in Mycroft began to thaw in earnest, the warmth from the hand in his traveling straight to his heart.