The silence was glorious. After a day of authoritative screaming at people for them being incompetent, Mycroft was glad there was no more sound than the subtle clinging noise of cutlery against plates. He adored these moments, where he was completely in sync with his companion, but none of them felt the need to say anything. They both needed the silence, cherished it.
Today's dinner was simple, yet delicious; cooked new potatoes with extra salty butter, fried salmon and a yoghurt-based dill sauce. Mycroft had done the cooking, as usual. He loved cooking, though he never told anyone about that. His job required certain poise, and the image of him standing by the stove in an apron would impress neither Mycroft's employees or colleagues, nor his Employer. At home, however, Mycroft did as he pleased. If it didn't disturb Mike, that is.
Mike and Mycroft met through Sherlock, strange as it sounds. Mycroft had never thought he would be introduced to anyone by Sherlock, let alone anyone he liked as much as he liked Mike. It was at Saint Barth's, several years ago, when Mycroft visited to deliver some evidence from an incident that concerned a dear friend of the Employer's that was to be examined, (Mycroft hadn't succeeded in persuading Sherlock into taking on the case, but he knew that access to evidence eventually would be too much for him to resist) when he'd simply run into Mike on the sidewalk. Mycroft wasn't completely sure of what had happened, how he got to be so smitten, but now it was like they'd always been together.
Mike Stamford wasn't a perfect man. In fact, he was almost the polar opposite of a perfect man. He was fat. Really fat. He was an asthmatic, a diabetic, and had awful rashes. He snored and talked in his sleep. He was quite intelligent, though, but not at all brilliant. Nothing like Mycroft, or Sherlock. He was not rich, but he wasn't poor. He got by. He complained, sure, but Mycroft could tell that he had always been quite satisfied with the life he led. He secretly loved teaching at Barth's, despite always complaining about his students.
When their plates got empty, Mike and Mycroft carried them to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher. Mike went over to get the paper bag that stood on the island unit, while Mycroft got two glass plates out of a cabinet. It was Friday, and Friday meant dessert.
From the bag, Mike produced two quite large pieces of lemon tart that he put on the plates, while Mycroft fetched forks, spoons, two small glasses and a bottle of Ratafia. They carried it all out to the salon, and sat down at the table by the big window. For some time they just sat there, watching each other.
"I take it you've had a rather pleasant day at work?" Mycroft asked Mike.
It was the first words that were uttered between them that day.
"Yes, I guess you could say that", Mike answered. "The students were concentrated, didn't talk much, and seemed to understand what I tried to teach them."
Mycroft smiled, one of his rare, genuine ones.
"I guessed it would be something down that lane. You look satisfied."
Mike gave a light chuckle.
"I cannot say the same for you, I'm afraid", he said. "At least not earlier, when you came from work. I guess it's a bit better now, though. Stressful day?
"Quite. It seems I am surrounded by idiots, and I suspect we're in the process of getting a mole."
Mike raised his eyebrows.
"I haven't decided", continued Mycroft, "If I'm simply going to get rid of him, or if I'll let him stay and use him against his employer. I could, of course, combine the two and use him for blackmailing. We'll see. I will deal with it Monday. I have prevented him from doing any harm during the weekend."
Silence fell again, and both men picked up their cutlery and tasted the tart.
"I saw your brother today", Mike told Mycroft. "He was in the lab examining some samples."
"New case, I presume. Did you get anything from it?" Mycroft asked with genuine curiosity.
"No, I only popped in and said hi. We're not really on a friendly basis. When it comes to Sherlock, no one really is."
Mycroft sighed.
"I know. Not even I am."
Silence fell once again over the table while the two men ate their lemon tart. Mike was the one to break the silence.
"It must be hard, your brother being so alienated to everybody."
"Oh, yes. I worry about him constantly. As you know, I even have a team set on finding out what he's up to, but even that isn't enough to keep track of him. He is Sherlock, and if he doesn't want you to know what he's doing, you don't get to know. Not much, anyway."
Mycroft now sat with his elbows on the table, his hands supporting his chin and gesturing sporadically while he talked.
"Does he have friends, I mean, at all?" Mike asked and mirrored Mycroft's position.
"I… don't know. There is Mrs. Hudson, I guess, the lady with the apartment on Baker Street, but as I understand he can't afford the rent. And of course, stubborn as he is, he refuses to let me help him."
"He should get a flat mate or something, then", Mike suggested.
Mycroft snorted.
"Why would anyone want to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes?"
"Valid point, I guess."
"I think even he knows that no one would", Mycroft said thoughtfully. "If he's even thought of it, that is. Do you think you could somehow put the idea in his mind?"
Mike considered it.
"…Yeah, I guess so. It will have to be something subtle, if I know him right."
"Yes. Preferably not directed to him personally. You could mention the concept of flat-shares to someone else when he's around. I think that would do it."
"He's awfully observant, your brother. Much like you."
Mycroft smiled at Mike, who smiled back at him.
The attraction Mycroft felt towards Mike was mostly due to this kind of situation. They would talk, and Mike would say something, however small, and Mycroft would become all warm on the inside. Mike was so unbearably kind, at all times. Kindness was not something Mycroft was accustomed to, having grown up in his family. There was a reason why he and Sherlock were like they were. With Mike, however, Mycroft's cold heart always melted. Whatever it was that troubled him (and he had had quite a lot of trouble in his life), Mike always made it all feel better.
"I think he needs someone like you", Mycroft told Mike with a shy, a bit out of character, smile. "A Doctor would be perfect for him. A medical man."
"You're probably right. But I don't think someone like me would do, because…" Mike laid his hand on Mycrofts. "…no offense, but your brother isn't as lazy as you are. He would never endure dragging someone like me around town solving crimes."
Mycroft laughed.
"True. We'll come up with something. Have anyone particular in mind?"
Mike sat silent for a moment while he thought about it.
"Dunno. Maybe. I heard something about one of my classmates from my time as a student at Barth's, he's apparently back from service in Afghanistan. Got shot or something, I reckon."
The two men looked in each other's eyes smiling.
This could be the start of something good.