A/N: Again, random fluff that I just couldn't get out of my head. Mystrade fluff seems to cling to me like that. Could tentatively be set in the same universe as Sending the Right Message? Just set a year and a half or so later. Anyways. Enjoy. :)
The first time Mycroft heard the music, he thought he was dreaming. Soft strains of some type of classical melody (half-awake Mycroft couldn't identify the composer) drifting through the hair-thin crack of the door. He turned over in the bed, startled to realize that Gregory was no longer there. A few moments later the music stopped and the door opened fully, Greg appearing in the doorway. Silently he crawled into the bed next to Mycroft, slipping an arm about Mycroft's waist and pulling him close. Mycroft fell asleep to the sound of Greg humming in his ear, soothing him back to his slumber.
The second time was a week later. He had gotten back from a particularly trying week-long stay in one of the pesky European countries (which one, after 73 hours of staying awake, he didn't really care) and Greg had stripped him and tucked him into bed. Mycroft had tried to grab him, tried to drag him into bed next to him, but Greg had kissed his forehead and murmured that he had to work. Mycroft understood the pulls of work on their together time. He just missed Greg so terribly much when he was out of town for long periods.
It had not been as difficult early in their relationship, but now that they had been dating for two years, Mycroft resented the lengthy trips out of his home country. He did what he had to, of course. He always would. But he made more of an effort to stay in contact when he could, resorting to texting during the many times he had no other option. Mycroft sighed and rolled over. It was the middle of the night and he was laying in bed, mostly asleep, by himself, because Gregory had to work late. It could have been worse.
Then he heard it. This time part of his brain was awake enough to identify the composition - it was Brahms' lullaby. One of Mycroft's favorite pieces. He stirred and turned over, pushing up on his elbows. Like it had a week prior, the music stopped and moments later Greg appeared in the doorway, his smile soft and sweet. Mycroft drifted off to sleep, feeling warm and cherished and loved, Gregory tucked neatly against his back. He did not remember the music in the morning.
Another two weeks (and two short trips this time) passed before Mycroft heard the music the third time. Gymnopedie, by Erik Satie. It was soft and sweet and winsome, the notes drifting through the air, buoyed by the slight golden light shining in through the crack of the door. It was again the middle of the night and Greg's side of the bed was still warm, although he was not in it. He had not been gone long, then, nor had he gone far. Fuzzy-headed, Mycroft made it to the point where his feet where on the floor before the music stopped and Greg appeared in the doorway. Making a sleepy noise of protest, Mycroft scowled when Greg shushed him, drawing him close and nuzzling the politician until he was too sleepy to care about the source of the music.
Two nights later Mycroft was awoken by Gymnopedie again. He hummed along to the melody, surprised at the tenderness with which it was played. Whomever was playing it was obviously very skilled. Gregory had been working late that night - a double murder - and Mycroft had no idea when he was going to be finished. He honestly doubted that a stranger would come into his flat and play classical music on the stereo without him or his security detail noticing, however, so that left one option. Gregory had come home. Stifling a yawn and drawing on his dressing gown at the end of the bed, he padded out of their bedroom and down the hall.
The music was coming from the small library they shared. The stereo and Mycroft's piano were there, the soft muted light casting into the darker hallway and beckoning Mycroft. He scrubbed at his eyes as he opened the door, the very picture of a sleepy child caught up too late. What he saw took his breath away and he stood in the doorway and stared. Gymnopedie was not being played by a stereo. Greg was sitting on the piano bench, his eyes closed as his fingers danced their way across the keys, bringing them to life as the song echoed through their halls.
He was dressed in his work clothing still, his silver hair damp with sweat and the creases in his face indicating some unresolved tension. Despite his emotional state, the bliss on his face as he played was unmistakable. How Mycroft had ever been silly enough to think it had been a CD, he had no idea. He was certainly not going to make the same mistake in the future. "It was you," Mycroft murmured, his voice low, barely able to be heard over the tender strains of the music.
Greg's eyes fluttered open, seeking Mycroft's, and a low, sensual smile spread over Greg's face. The tension seemed to ebb from his body even though slowly, his playing came to a close. He smiled at Mycroft, who was leaning against the side of the doorframe, his arms wrapped around himself. "Did I wake you, love? I'm sorry." Mycroft shook his head.
"You play beautifully," he told Greg, surprised he had never deduced his partner's talent. Greg stepped back from the piano and walked over to the drowsy-looking Mycroft, gathering him in his arms and kissing him gently. He carded a hand through Mycroft's soft hair a few times, holding the taller man's lanky body flush against his. Greg buried his head in the crook of Mycroft's neck, nuzzling the soft skin there and mouthing gentle kisses over the sensitive spots. Mycroft shivered underneath him. "Gregory," he murmured apologetically.
"I know." Greg lifted his head up and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to Mycroft's mouth. "Let's get you back to bed, love." Slipping an arm around Mycroft's waist, Greg walked him back to the bedroom, fingers curled about his hips.
"I wish I could hear you play more," Mycroft said, stifling a yawn as Greg tucked him into the bed, this time settling right behind him. "Why didn't you tell me you played?"
"You didn't ask the right question," Greg told him softly, an amused lilt to his voice. "Go to sleep, love." Greg pressed a kiss to the nape of Mycroft's neck, skilled hands sliding up and down Mycroft's side. Mycroft mumbled a protest as sleep claimed him yet again.
They fell into a routine, after that. Two or three nights a week Mycroft would be awoken by the soft strains of music (if he was home, that is). Sometimes he got up, went and found Greg and they held each other and everything was warm and safe and comforting. The majority of the time he did not. He would lay in bed and listen and hum and make just a bit of noise. Minutes later he would hear the music stop and Gregory would come and crawl into bed and cuddle him until he fell asleep. It was not every time, as both men were ridiculously busy, but it was often enough that Mycroft was getting a regular amount of sleep for the first time in thirty years. Not that he would ever tell Greg that, however, because Greg would possibly kill him. He knew that Mycroft pushed himself, but not to what extent. Mycroft planned to keep it that way.
So two months later, when Mycroft was going through his overnight bag while on a truly boring flight to somewhere that he was not allowed to disclose, he was not surprised to discover a small envelope that felt like it could contain a cassette tape. What did surprise him was the contents when he opened it. Inside the envelope was a small note and an MP3 player of some sort. His assistant glanced up from her seat about two meters to the right, meeting his puzzled gaze with a smirk. Greg had enlisted her help to pull this off, then, since there was no one else who would be sticking things into his luggage. No one else that had a positive motivation to do so, anyway.
There were headphones attached to the music player and tentatively Mycroft examined them. He checked the note. It was fairly short, reading:
Mycroft,
Yes, the headphones are new. Brand new. Promise. Just listen.
Love, G
Mycroft snorted before gingerly pressing the headphones into his ears. He could manage his work duties through his phone and didn't need to hear the plane as it traveled. A trickle of electricity sparked down his spine as he wondered what Gregory had put on the music player. As soon as he switched it on and pressed play, the soft strains of Erik Satie's Gymnopedie floated into his ears. It sounded very similar to Gregory's rendition - he must have been playing it, then. Pulling the electronic media player up closer to his face, Mycroft scrolled rapidly through it.
On it was nearly 20 different compositions that Gregory must have recorded for him. There were even some videos, set up so that Mycroft could watch Greg play from several different angles. There were not videos for every composition, just about half, but it was enough. It was a piece of Gregory that he would be able to keep with him, even if Greg was far away. It was so much in so little and Mycroft felt like his heart was going to burst. As he clutched the device to his chest, a second piece of paper fell out of the envelope. It was even smaller than the first and Mycroft picked it up. It simply read 'Open Video #5.'
Obediently Mycroft pulled up the video playlist and scrolled to the corresponding video. This one started off with Brahms before the music stopped and Greg's face came closer into view. He looked at the camera, a smile on his face, although he shifted nervously in front of the lens. "If Anthea helped me all pull it all off, you're on some trip to God knows where to do God knows what." Mycroft chuckled at Greg's words. "I know we should be having this talk in person, but we never seem to have enough time anymore. One of us is always getting back to the flat at a ridiculous hour and half-asleep is not the time to discuss it." Mycroft shifted, leaning forward to stare more intently at the small screen in front of him. "This media player is for you. I put together some stuff you seemed to like at night." Greg paused, and took a deep breath. "You asked me why I didn't tell you I could play, and I told you that you didn't ask the right question. Well, now it's my turn to ask the right question."
"The past two and a half years have been - well, they've been pretty bloody brilliant, Mycroft, and I think you know that." The Greg in the video scratched the back of his head, and then he smiled at the camera. "So what I really want to know is...Mycroft, will you marry me? Like a proper marriage and all, suits and whatnot. Though God knows you've got enough suits, really, so we'd just have to get one for me, or maybe you want a special one, or something - I don't really know how it works to get married when you already look like you could be in a wedding party half the time, and bloody hell shut up Greg." Greg chuckled apologetically and Mycroft just stared at the screen, his eyes wide. He could feel his assistant's gaze on him, her eyes sharp with curiosity. She knew what he was watching, then. "So. Uh. Yeah." Greg snorted at himself and shook his head. "I want to do it properly, Mycroft. I love you and I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life without you by my side. But I don't want you to feel pressured or anything, and doing it like this gives you space if you really want to think it over. And I do want you to. Think it over. Oh, and to marry me, of course. But. Yeah. God, I can't shut up." Greg laughed. "See you soon, love." He waved to the camera and the screen went blank, the video complete.
"I'm to give you this," his assistant said, breaking into Mycroft's frozen thoughts like a sledgehammer. She held a small, glossy-black box in her hand. Mycroft didn't even need to open it to see what was inside. They had been at a jeweler's, getting Mycroft's plain band re-sized (his finger was too small) and Mycroft had made some noncommittal remark about wedding bands or the like and he hadn't even noticed Gregory jot it down. Yet sure enough, when he opened the small box, there was what he had wanted. What they had wanted. Platinum yet nondescript - it was perfect in that it would not draw much attention, which was critical for their line of work.
Slowly Mycroft picked up his mobile. He typed and sent a text to one Gregory Lestrade.
'Yes. MH'