Mycroft gave a nod and watched John as he slid into the sedan.

Greg watched John drive away and then turned to the man standing next to him.

"So, where are we going?" Greg asked, as he bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets.

Mycroft gave the detective a very confused questioning look.

"Well, I was expecting a good meal, followed by cake. And dancing. I got all dressed up." Greg gave a game show wave from his shoulders down to his shoes. "The way I see it, you at least owe me good time tonight. A nice dinner and a very, very, long detailed explanation."

Greg gave his sideways smile, with a mischievous glint in his eyes and enjoyed the look of confusion on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft was smart. A genius. But he could not understand what was going on here.

Anthea stepped out of the black sedan just down the block, and gave them a wave.

Greg looped his arm through Mycroft's, and pressed close, whispered in his ear "Come on Mycroft, let's go" and led him away.

Greg walked Mycroft down to the black sedan where Anthea waited.

She opened the rear door, and Greg gave a wave of his hand, which indicated to Mycroft he should go in first. With a bit of a curious nod, Mycroft slid into the car and Greg followed him with a playful grin.

As Greg settled into the plush backseat, Mycroft studied him. Still trying to read what was going on with this man. He could only hope, but there wasn't certainty. For this, there had to be certainty. Mycroft was not one to risk the game by guessing.

He tore his gaze away, and looked towards the front at his assistant, "Please ensure I'm updated on Sherlock's status every 15 minutes."

Greg stared towards the front as well and caught Anthea's eyes just as he said,

"No"

"Pardon me?" Mycroft asked incredulously, snapped his head towards the detective.

"No, Mycroft. As I said earlier, I believe you owe me dinner and a very long explanation, and I expect your full attention. It's the least you can do," Greg said as he slowly turned his face towards the man, and bore an edgy angry stare into him. "John was not the only one who was lied to. I worked with you, all this time, and you looked me in the eye and lied to me everyday."

Mycroft pursed his lips together and his face betrayed that perhaps this was a consequence he had not considered. He flicked his eyes towards the front gave Anthea a nod, and quietly said.

"Diogenes Club," and then looked at Greg through his narrowed eyelids "Please tell them it's a... special occasion."

Greg gave a half smirk and turned to face forward.

Greg had been in the Diogenes club before, but something was different. It was dinner time on a Saturday, and the place was... quiet. Well, quiet was normal, but not this quiet. The club was eerily silent because there was not another person there.

Greg followed Mycroft's quick stride through the historic building, his shoes clicked on the parquet floors, echoed off the walls. They walked through a part of the club Greg had never been until they reached a large set of dark wood, double doors. Mycroft set his hands on the doorknobs, paused a moment to look at Greg, and then opened the doors with a flourish.

There was a glow, from across the room, a warm yellow with earthy colors intermingled. It was a stained glass screen in front of a roaring fireplace, a depiction of Louis Tiffany's 'The Tree of Life', the glass made fanciful shadows on the walls. The wood smelled wonderful, and had a pleasant crackling that reminded Greg of Christmas morning when he was a child.

In front of the fireplace were two overstuffed chairs, a deep brown worn leather, that could swallow you whole while you snuggled in with a good book. All that was missing was an Irish setter curled up on the floor.

The sound of glass on glass pulled Greg's attention to the left side of the room, where Mycroft stood by a small dining table, poured a glass of beer from a bottle. He set the empty bottle down and offered the glass. A soft smile spread across Mycroft's face, as he could see the detective's appreciation of his choice of dining room.

The room was warm, inviting, and intimate. Not exactly characteristics one would associate with Mycroft, so clearly this choice was meant to impress Greg.

Greg smiled back at Mycroft as he took the glass from him.

"Thank you, this is lovely," Greg said softly.

Mycroft hummed in response.

"I hope you don't mind, but I took liberty with our dinner selection," Mycroft said as he sat down and gestured to the other chair.

Greg eased his way into the seat and pulled off the plate covering.

Steak, medium rare by the look of it, cooked in a red wine sauce. Roasted potatoes and pea purée. All of Greg's favorites. He took in the rest of the table, so perfectly appointed, and the glass of water...the ice had barely melted. He looked up at Mycroft.

"They are quite...efficient, and discreet here," Mycroft said in response as he unveiled his own plate, the same dish as Greg's. "Bon appetite."

"Yes, indeed," Greg said eagerly as he placed his napkin in his lap, then picked up his fork and knife. He quickly pierced a small potato and dipped it in some of the red wine sauce that ringed the steak. He slid it into his mouth, and as the divine flavor tantalized his taste buds, he gave a loud satisfying groan. The movement of Mycroft's head as it snapped up caught Greg's eye.

"Sorry, it just tastes...wonderful," Greg said sheepishly, although he was quite pleased to see a flush spread across Mycroft's cheeks.

"Quite alright, it's understandable. I get a get deal of pleasure from food as well, possibly more than I should."

"Nonsense," Greg said emphatically. "Good food and good company is what makes life worth living."

"Not to the detriment of one's physique."

"You look fine to me," Greg said offhandedly as he cut into his steak. Mycroft stilled his movements under the weight of the rare and simple compliment. His face flushed again.

Greg noticed Mycroft's reaction, slowly raised his eyes, and flashed a smile. He leaned back, placed a piece of meat into his mouth, chewed a moment and then asked,

"So, did you know from the beginning?"

Mycroft took a moment to recover from being dazzled by the detective's charm, before he responded,

"No, I didn't know, in the beginning. The day I came to the Yard to gather my brother's things, Sherlock was waiting for me in my car."

He took a sip of his wine and looked over the rim of the glass to Greg's stunned face.

"He had the bullocks to sit in a car just outside of Scotland Yard?" Greg asked incredulously, "What if someone saw him, or if I happened to walk you to your car."

"Why would you do that?" Mycroft asked, with a sideways look.

"I dunno, just to be polite," Greg mumbled as he slipped in another bit of potato, then he looked into Mycroft's eyes and waved at him, "Well, go on, out with it. Tell me the whole story."

They had moved from dinner to dessert, while Mycroft wove the tale of Sherlock's life the past years. There was a hint of pride and admiration in his voice, for his little brother. He told the story with detail and style, engrossed Greg so much that he rarely asked any questions.

They had retired from the dining table to sit in front of the fire with a decadent scotch. The light played across Greg's face and danced across the front of his tuxedo. He had pulled the bow tie to hang loosely around his neck, and had undone the top few buttons, which showed his lean neck and a bit of his chest. As Mycroft spoke, he tried hard not to stare at the wisps of dark hair and honey skin that was bathed in the warm fire light. But Greg had caught Mycroft as he stared, and gave a sly smile each time.

Those moments were few and far between, and for the most part, deep concern pressed into Greg's face as the evening wore on. He'd not seen Mycroft like this before, so open and forthcoming. It seemed cleansing for the man, in a way, to finally have someone to tell the tale to.

There was a slight, uncharacteristic slump to Mycroft's posture, as he sank into the soft chair...as if he didn't have the energy anymore, to maintain his rigid bearing.

And there was sadness, in his eyes, as he talked about the death of his agent that was working with Sherlock. Fear trembled his words when he spoke of the explosion Sherlock barely survived.

Mycroft had trouble containing the panic he had felt, as he told Greg about how Sherlock had disappeared for ten days.

Ten days, he searched for his baby brother. He ordered his teams to look everywhere, until they were exhausted. And then he ordered them to look again. He ordered his men to interrogate criminals and underworld agents, until most broke. And when his own men would go no further to question the last few that would not break, Mycroft said,

"I stepped in and I did what had to be done. In the end, it wasn't enough," Mycroft paused to look at Greg,

"There was a very dark moment, when I was convinced I had lost him...all over again. But, Sherlock did turn up, eventually...thank goodness" Mycroft's gaze drifted back into the fire.

The sound of the fire filled between them as Greg took a sip of scotch, and he savored the burn in his throat. His body had tensed as Mycroft talked about what had to be done.

Greg slowly closed his eyes, but the image of Mycroft slumped in the chair was burned into his mind, and he thought to himself,

Sherlock, you bastard, before he broke the silence and said,

"He's a bastard!"

"Well, he had his reasons to - "

"No, fuck that Mycroft. He's a bastard for putting you through that," Greg said forcefully, as Mycroft turned to speak again, "No, Mycroft, don't defend him. You've painted such a wonderful story, with Sherlock as the hero, fighting to protect his friends. You did so much for him, and he didn't have the decency to tell you he was still alive...for ten days?"

The words echoed a bit and hung in the air. Mycroft gave a weak smile at the detective's concern.

"I have half a mind to go over there right now and beat the shit out of that little bastard."

Mycroft gave a chuckle as he sat up a bit and took a drink of his scotch. Greg smiled before he turned serious again.

"He's really lucky, to have you as a brother," Greg said softly as he reached out and placed a warm palm on Mycroft's forearm. "I don't think he appreciates all you've done for him."

The air between them stilled and crackled when Mycroft looked into Greg's eyes. The detective gave a gentle squeeze before pulling away again. He cleared his throat a little before he urged Mycroft,

"Alright, after his highness swanned off for ten days, then what happened?"

Greg tried hard to stop laughing. But Mycroft was insistent, and kept showing his pictures of Sherlock in disguise. The one in the jumper was Greg's favorite, the Moroccan dish-dash a close second. They were all candid shots, and Mycroft seemed to get a perverse pleasure in capturing the elegant detective in the most inelegant of poses. Sherlock asleep with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, standing in the street scratching his bum, and the series of photos from the desert, where clearly sand had found it's way into every nook and cranny. Greg was sure he wouldn't look at the consulting detective the same.

"You have to send these photos to John," Greg said with a laugh. "A bit of payback for watching him commit su-suicide," Greg choked on the last word.

Mycroft respectfully ignored the emotionally slip, and moved to show Greg the next photo when the detective spoke with a halting voice,

"I-I thought I drove him to it, you know. That he thought I didn't believe in him. I just...couldn't believe that he died, thinking I betrayed him. Aside from knocking that bastard out when I see him, I need to tell him that I never...never stopped believing," Greg pressed his lips together to try to stop the inevitable. But the tears rolled down his cheeks anyways.

Mycroft froze. He didn't know what the right thing to do was. Should he say something or reach out with a consoling touch? Was a hug appropriate? Perhaps he should just look away until it passed?

The indecisive stunned look plastered across Mycroft's face was enough to pull the tears right back into his tear ducts, and Greg just gave a weak smile of appreciation...at least Mycroft had thought about doing something caring.

Mycroft looked relieved as the detective drank down the last of his scotch and shook off the sad moment.

"So, now we go dancing?" Greg said playfully.

Mycroft just gave him a tilt of his head and a smirk.

Greg stood and raised his arms over his head, stretched his body out after sitting for so long. He looked down and followed Mycroft's gaze, which had fallen on the small slice of hip that had peaked out. It took a moment too long before Mycroft realized he had gotten caught staring, again, and quickly turned his attention back to the fire. And suddenly Greg had had enough.

"I'm not a patient man, Mycroft."

"Excuse me?"

"This little dance we're doing, I think we can just skip to the end."

"To the end of what?"

"Don't play coy with me, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft put on his most innocent face possible, really tried, to act like he didn't know what Greg was referring to.

"I'm not young and innocent, Mycroft. I don't need to be wooed. I just want to get the real part, you know...the good stuff."

Okay...maybe Mycroft really didn't know what Greg was referring to.

"Stop sneaking glances at me. Look at me. Really look."

Mycroft slowly did as ordered. He started at the floor at Greg's shoes, double knotted laces. Up past the calves and to the thighs that filled the flat front tuxedo trousers so...very nicely. The trouser hung low on the detective's hips, and the man had teasingly rucked up his untucked shirt when he had placed his hands on his hips, showed a playful bit of firm stomach with a trail of dark hair that traveled down to...

"Do you like what you see?"

Mycroft answered slowy, in a rough voice, as he raised his head to look into Greg's eyes.

"Yes"

"Are you attracted to me?" Greg asked quietly, cautiously, and looked down at his shoes.

Mycroft stood up and smoothed out his clothes. He closed the gap between them. He breathed in the smell of Gregory Lestrade, and as the odorant molecules bonded to the olfactory receptors, Mycroft's body tingled all over.

He answered slightly breathlessly,

"Yes, I am very... attracted to you."

Greg raised his dark eyes to stare at Mycroft, with a dangerous look on his face as he dared Mycroft,

"Then do something about it."