Greg jerks awake and flings his arm across the bed, smacking the pillow beside him with his palm. Fortunately Mycroft is no longer in bed or it would have been his face. Greg blinks twice and breathes out heavily.
"Unsettling dream?"
Greg sighs and lies back again. "No, just 'think I missed my alarm' wake up."
Mycroft smiles as he picks a tie from his closet. "You have not yet."
Greg turns his head to the side and squints at the clock. Then he turns back to Mycroft, now looping a light blue tie around his neck. "Why are you already up?"
"Early to bed, early to rise?"
"You don't go to bed early."
Mycroft pulls the knot of his tie tight against his collar. "Half right then."
"So, meeting?"
"Terrorism never sleeps, Greg."
"Since it's a concept and not a person."
Mycroft buttons the top button of his vest and narrows his eyes at Greg. "Is it entirely appropriate for you to be cheeky before your alarm has gone off?"
Greg grins and stretches against the sheets. "Is it?"
Greg's pants hit him in the face. He slides them off and frowns. "Thanks." He pulls them on underneath the covers then sits up. "Is that all I get?"
"Have you lost the ability to stand?"
Greg huffs. "Well, you already are."
Mycroft glances around at the floor. "Your trousers are somewhere, I am sure."
Greg laughs and rubs a hand over his hair. "If you let me leave suits here then I'd have some in your closet."
Mycroft jerks around from where he stands at his dresser. "I… you… you never asked."
"Well, seemed presumptuous."
"But you're asking now."
"I didn't actually ask."
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Greg."
"I've got a point, know you can see that."
"I…" Mycroft clears his throat. "You do." He picks up his suit jacket from the hanger on the door of his closet then turns and walks out of the bedroom.
"Is that a yes or a no?" Greg calls after him.
Mycroft does not respond.
Greg rubs his forehead but decides he may as well get up too since he is awake. Greg stands up from Mycroft's king size bed and picks up his mobile from the side table, turning off the alarm. He probably has enough time to get home and get a fresh set of clothes; though even if he came into work in the same black suit, who would notice? Greg looks around and finds his trousers, white shirt, and tie on a chair. He is pretty sure his suit jacket is downstairs. Greg ducks into Mycroft's bathroom for a few minutes, skipping the shower for now, then forces himself into his clothes. He just stuffs the tie in his trouser pocket for now.
Downstairs, Mycroft is tapping keys on his laptop in the living room by the window. He has a coffee at his right hand on the table still steaming in the sunlight. Greg watches Mycroft's back from the foot of the stairs for a moment and thinks how he wouldn't mind seeing this every morning. Greg glances down the hall and sees his suit jacket draped over the back of a chair. He steps off the stairs and goes to retrieve his jacket. Putting his arms though, he moves the tie from his trouser pocket to his jacket pocket.
"Where is my wallet…" Greg mutters, answering his own question when he sees it in a glass dish on the table beside the chair, along with his keys. He smiles. "Ah ha."
He puts his wallet in his back pocket, keys in a front pocket then walks back over to the room where Mycroft is.
"Hey."
"Yes?" Mycroft says without looking at Greg.
"Going to head out, clean clothes and all."
Mycroft turns around partway in his chair. His eyes flick up and down Greg once. "Wise decision."
Greg looks down at himself, arms to the side. "What?"
"Would do not to smell too much like sex?"
Greg laughs suddenly. "Well, all right."
Mycroft smiles and turns back around to his laptop. Greg watches Mycroft and chews the edge of his lip. Greg scratches the back of his head, takes one step forward but steps back again in the next second.
"Right," his whispers. Then he clears his throat. "I'll see you later then."
Mycroft looks back over his shoulder. "Good bye."
Greg nods. "Bye."
––––––––––
Greg paces back and forth, case file in his hand.
"We know part of his choice is hair color," Brooks says as Greg paces in front of her, "all blonds."
"And all over thirty but under forty," Greg fills in then waves a hand, "approximately."
"It's the locations," Brooks continues as she steps closer to the white board.
Greg snaps his file closed. "Right. Some at home, some at work, some straight off the tube, all over the map." He turns around. "Speaking of, where is the map?"
"Here." Bradford comes around the corner just as Greg asks the question. "Added the tracer lines you asked about." Bradford shoos Brooks to the side. He then magnets the map to the white board, mostly out of the way of the victim photos.
Brooks backs up and stands beside Greg, Bradford sliding into line on the other side of Greg a moment later. They all stare at the board, arms crossed.
"It's not coffee shops is it?" Bradford says quietly.
Brooks snickers. "God, I hope not."
Greg cocks his head. "But you have a point, easy preying ground for young professionals. Thirty crowd needs their coffee."
"Check it?" Bradford asks.
"Check it," Greg affirms.
Greg hands Bradford the case file with all the crime scene information and he jogs off toward his desk to check locations. A few seconds later, Anderson walks over and stops beside Greg. Greg turns to him and raises his eyebrows.
Anderson nods. "Uh, yes, same drug with Alice Martin as with the other victims."
"Wonderful," Brooks mutters and flips her hair. "I love serial killers."
Anderson starts slightly and stares at her. Then he crosses his arms and shakes his head hard.
"Anderson?" Greg asks.
He looks at Greg then shakes his head again. "Uh, nothing, nothing. Just… well, it's very Sherlock." He clears his throat and points at the map. "This case."
Greg stares at Anderson for a moment then sighs. "Yeah, you could say so."
"What about a correlation to where they were picked up and where they were dumped?" Brooks asks suddenly.
"Didn't think we found one?"
"But there could be!" Brooks steps up closer to the map. "I mean… maybe." She twirls around to face them, pointing a finger. "I want to check something!"
Brooks holds up a hand as she turns, pulling out her mobile, and walking in the opposite direction. Anderson and Greg look at each other then back to the board. Greg keeps eyeing the map, up and down, across and back. What is it about the locations?
"It would be good to have Sherlock now, wouldn't it?" Anderson says. Greg turns to him and Anderson looks back at him. "Can't you see him connecting the dots?"
"He's not here, Anderson, and we can connect the dots just as well."
"No, of course not but, I mean, what if."
"What if what?" Greg frowns. "What if Sherlock were here?"
Anderson's face changes and he is suddenly smiling, smiling so much more than he should be. "Yes, exactly, yes! What if he were here?"
Greg uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on his hips. "Anderson, we are going to solve this case. It's not–"
"That's not what I mean," Anderson insists. "I mean, what if Sherlock were here, now, alive!"
Greg puts up a hand. "Anderson, calm down."
"I am ca…" Anderson breathes in deeply then nods slowly. "I'm calm."
"What's going on with you?" Greg asks.
Anderson rubs his hands together, looks over his shoulder toward the empty room then back. "What if Sherlock is alive?"
Greg sighs. "I've told you, Anderson, yes, Sherlock was a help but we do know how to do our jobs."
"No, I don't mean hypothetically, I mean really!"
"What?"
"What if Sherlock is alive?"
Greg stares at Anderson for two beats. "Alive?"
"Yes, alive, walking, breathing, alive!"
"He jumped from the roof of Barts, Anderson, what in the hell are you talking about!"
Anderson breathes in through his nose and holds up his hands. "Just listen, just… what if he didn't? What if he faked his death?" Greg opens his mouth but Anderson waves his hand. "Wait, wait, just hear me out, all right?"
Greg bites his teeth together but his shoulders sag and he shakes his head. "All right."
Anderson beams. "Say with the accusations against him –"
"Yours."
Anderson glares, "and the web weaved by Jim Moriarty, Richard Brook, whoever... Say there was a reason, a reason he had to hide…"
"And?"
"So, he fakes his death and goes into hiding now so that later he can come back!"
"Come back?"
"Yes, so he can come back when the accusations prove false and it is safe again for him to –"
"Right, enough!" Greg cuts Anderson off curtly, sweeping a hand through the air between them. "That's enough."
"But –"
"Look, Anderson, I know you feel guilty about what happened, that's understandable, but I'm sorry, Sherlock is gone. It's not fake. John Watson watched him fall. You can't fake that."
"Sherlock could."
Greg breathes in slowly. "You need rest, Anderson. Maybe you should take a day or two off, yeah? Clear your head."
Anderson shakes his head. "I don't need to clear my head. It's –"
"It sounds mad, Anderson!"
Anderson gasps once and stares at Greg in shock. He puts his hands on hips and looks down at the floor. Then he sighs and looks up again. "You're right, it… it sounds mad."
Greg clicks his teeth. "Look, take the rest of the day, just go home."
Anderson breathes in slowly. "I'll show you," Anderson whispers and holds up a finger. "I will. It's true."
"Anderson…"
Anderson turns and walks briskly away from Greg without another word. He passes Brooks on his way out, nearly knocking into her. She turns in place to watch him go then continues walking in.
She frowns as she reaches Greg. "Something happen?"
Greg shakes his head and crosses his arms again. "I hope not." He looks at the paper in her hand, toward the map on the board then back to her. "It's the tube stations, isn't it?"
She nods. "Think so."
––––––––––
Greg and Mycroft sit across from each other at a small table by the window with coffees between them. Mycroft has an espresso and Greg's is a tall black, something to zap his brain back into order what with some of their cases lately. Mycroft currently clicks away on his blackberry before slipping it back into his pocket. He sighs and takes a sip of his espresso.
"Rough day?" Greg asks.
"I would qualify it a month."
Greg smiles and rubs his thumb over Mycroft's hand. Mycroft looks down at their hands. He is smiling when he looks up again.
"How long do you have before it's back to the desk?"
Mycroft pulls out his pocket watch with his other hand and clicks it open. "Not long enough."
Greg huffs a quiet laugh. "Remember when you told me you had to schedule in coffee breaks?"
Mycroft closes his pocket watch. "Do you think this one was not on my calendar?"
"Was it?"
Mycroft just takes another sip of his espresso. Greg shakes his head and sits up straight again, drinking some of his coffee, starting to cool off now.
"How goes your serial killer case?" Mycroft asks.
"The tube one?" Greg sighs. "Close. Has to be, what with…" Greg cuts himself off thinking of their most recent victim, blue eyes and no feet. He looks at Mycroft again and smiles in a thin line. "It's close."
Mycroft only nods, tapping a finger on the handle of his espresso cup. They both turn to gaze out of the window, thin traffic and people passing by carrying shopping bags. Greg thinks about Italy and the smell of distant sunflowers.
Then Mycroft's cup clinks. "I must go."
Greg turns back and looks at his own watch. He sighs. "Right."
They stand up at the same time, Greg picking up his paper coffee cup to take with him. Mycroft holds his arm out and Greg walks in front of him toward the door. They step out onto the sidewalk then turn right together. Mycroft's office is closer and they'd decided to skip his black car this time what with it being warm out. The sky is gray above them and just as Greg starts to think it, rain drops begin to fall.
"The one time we walk," Greg mutters and then the rain bursts, increases, and in less than minute rain cascades down on them.
Greg puts his hands up over his head instinctively. Then Mycroft grips Greg's free wrist and pulls him close. Mycroft opens his umbrella over the two of them, just enough space for two when they stand chest to chest.
"There." Mycroft smiles.
Greg glances up at the black fabric then back to Mycroft. "So, it's a real umbrella? Not a sword or something?
"That's my other umbrella."
"Good for us."
Mycroft cocks his head. "Did you think I never used my umbrella for its intended purpose?"
"Well, you look good with a prop."
Mycroft purses his lips and Greg grins.
Mycroft reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. He clicks the screen then puts it to his ear. It takes two seconds. "Yes, please send a car." Then he hangs up again.
"We're going to stand here and wait for a car?"
"What would you rather do?"
"Walk."
Mycroft gives him a look like he just said the stupidest thing in the world. "If you would rather half of you be wet for the remainder of the day then, by all means, we can but as you may notice we will stay dryer this way."
Greg sighs. "Well, when you put it that way."
"There is no other way to put it."
"Or maybe you want a reason to stay close to me under your umbrella."
Mycroft frowns but Greg can see it is only because he is trying to keep from smiling too much. Greg grins for him and grips Mycroft's free hand. He moves the hand with his coffee out from between them and kisses Mycroft's frown. Mycroft humphs but Greg kisses him again then a third time until he feels Mycroft smile and kiss him back.
"Ah ha," Greg says.
Mycroft smiles and sighs quietly, squeezing Greg's hand once.
"We do both have work to be doing," Mycroft says as he taps a finger on the back of Greg's hand.
"We're waiting for your car."
"Did I say I was taking you as well?"
Greg's mouth drops open and he scoffs. "Didn't you say something about not wanting to be wet for the rest of the day?"
"Something like that."
"Uh huh."
Mycroft smiles. "You may come in my car."
"I know."
Mycroft's eyes narrow but he does not stop smiling. He lets go of Greg's hand then reaches up and brushes Greg's hair back. He rubs his thumb at the back of Greg's neck for a moment then drops his hand.
"We haven't stood together in the rain before, not in all these months."
"No?"
Greg shakes his head. "No."
"Is this something worth marking?"
"Why not?"
"I…" Mycroft breathes in slowly and raises his eyebrows. "I suppose I cannot think of a reason not to."
"Except that it's unnecessary?" Greg fills in.
Mycroft smiles. "Except that."
Greg only shrugs.
People hurry past on either side of them on the sidewalk, some under umbrellas but more without. A few people run by with newspapers limp against their heads. Despite their umbrella, the rain begins to soak into the base of their trousers, triangles of dampness just where the rain can reach them. Mycroft slides his arm around Greg and pulls him even closer.
When Mycroft's car arrives, he holds his umbrella over Greg so Greg can get in the car first without getting wet at all.
––––––––––
Mycroft and Greg walk around the National Gallery late in the afternoon. It is about an hour before the museum closes so the school groups are gone. The place is still as silent as Greg remembers most museums, only the occasional whisper of half–correct art analysis. He hasn't been inside a museum, other than for a few crime scenes and Sherlock's countdown painting episode, in years.
"While I admit you're quite posh," Greg whispers to Mycroft, "this still seems a bit, I don't know, ordinary for you?"
"You find works of art to be ordinary?"
"No, not... I just mean, I usually think of you in different places than this. This is..."
"Touristy?"
"Safe."
"You don't find our dinners out and evenings at your flat to be safe?"
"Different kind of safe."
Mycroft smiles. "Well, perhaps it is good to go somewhere a bit calmer now and then."
"Like your Diogenes?"
Mycroft opens his mouth to speak then stop abruptly when his mobile buzzes. Mycroft pulls it out of his pocket and whirls away from Greg, phone at his ear.
"Is the tracking in place?" Mycroft says quietly into the phone. "It is unnecessary to hide it, he knows I know..."
Greg stops listening and looks at the wall in front of him, various 17th century Italian paintings in front of him. A girl sits on one of the available benches attempting to sketch a likeness of one painting. Greg wonders absently if Mycroft ever did such a thing. He glances over his shoulder for Mycroft again and sees him out in the hall now near the wall. Greg crosses his arms but stays where he is. He would move into another gallery because these paintings really aren't his thing but he is not about to lose Mycroft in the maze of different galleries. Greg circles around the whole of the gallery looking at various biblical or mythological paintings, a few real life subjects thrown in. Greg stares at "Boy Bitten by a Lizard" for about ten seconds and wonders why anyone would choose that situation to paint?
"And with a face like that..." Greg mutters.
"Apologies." Mycroft suddenly appears at Greg's side. "Now, shall we look for some Rembrandt? Or perhaps Bellini?"
"What, you don't like da Vinci?"
"Anyone can like da Vinci."
They walk straight through the next gallery and into one dedicated to Rubens. Mycroft pauses for a moment in front of "Samson and Delilah."
"The type of thing you paint?" Greg whispers with a nudge to Mycroft's arm.
Mycroft scoffs then loops his arm through Greg's, pulling him forward through the gallery and right into another. Mycroft takes them into the next gallery, 'Dutch interiors,' when his mobile buzzes again. He lets go of Greg and pulls out his phone.
Mycroft turns away. "Yes? No, that is not good enough..."
Greg sighs and rubs a hand over his hair. He clicks his teeth together and walks along until he hits the one Vermeer in the gallery of a woman wearing a large dress in that same room Vermeer always paints. Greg thinks it's funny when paintings are in paintings, even just as background. He chews his lip and tries to remember if he ever saw that film, the one with Scarlett Johansson that was about Vermeer? At least he thinks it was; it is a vague memory now.
Greg looks over his shoulder again for Mycroft and sees him nowhere. He turns all the way around and only sees three other strangers in the gallery.
"Damn it."
Greg walks over to one doorway into the gallery they just came through. He peers in but does not see Mycroft there. He crosses the gallery the other way and walks into the next room, this one larger than the last. Finally he sees Mycroft standing near the far wall from him. Greg frowns and strides across the room until he is next to Mycroft.
"Mycroft, you could have told me you –"
Mycroft holds up a finger to Greg and leans away toward the mobile at his ear. "Yes. Yes, as I said." He sighs heavily. "We speaking of the safety of the city, not a university student flat!"
Greg clenches his jaw and sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. Finally Mycroft hangs up and turns back to Greg.
He frowns. "I needed to move to a less populated area."
"Perhaps not a museum then."
Mycroft sighs. "Don't be tiresome, Greg."
Greg shrugs, "we can go if you need to."
"You wanted to spend some time –"
"And we can go if you need to."
Mycroft sighs. "You do not understand how difficult you are, Greg."
Greg purses his lips. "I think I do."
Mycroft's mobile vibrates again. They both look at it then back up at each other. Mycroft bites the edge of his lip. Greg nods toward the phone. Mycroft taps the screen and holds it up to his ear, eyes still on Greg.
"Yes?"
Greg reaches out and takes Mycroft's hand. He pulls Mycroft forward and walks them in the direction of the museum exit. Mycroft glances at Greg out of the corner of his eye as he listens to his mobile. His hand squeezes Greg's. Greg smiles and squeezes back.
––––––––––
Greg has been in the office less than hour before Anderson walks through his door, shutting it behind him. He drops a print out of what appears to be a foreign newspaper on Greg's desk, looks like maybe Poland? Greg stares at the article, image of some man standing in front of a car, then he looks up at Anderson again.
"Look." Anderson leans over and taps his finger over headline. "Look at that!"
"I don't read Polish, Anderson."
Anderson scoffs. "It's Czech!"
Greg sighs. "And?"
"The case, a closed murder case reopened and proven to be a set up with the victim in fact still alive! Look at that, it's his work all over."
"His?"
"Sherlock!" Greg stares at Anderson. Anderson reaches out and picks up the article again. He flips it around again in his hand so the front faces Greg. "Who else would do something like that? And no mention of who or why the case was pulled back to the light? Sherlock!"
"Anderson, sit down."
"There is another one." Anderson points at Greg's computer. "I can send you the link. In India two weeks ago."
"Anderson…"
"Two men were –"
"Anderson, sit down!"
Anderson pulls back and blinks for a moment, then he sits down in the chair across from Greg's desk.
"You've got to stop this." Anderson shakes his head but Greg taps a hand firmly on his desk and points at Anderson with the other. "No, I'm serious. You are behind on paper work, completely neglecting crime scene work so that others have to pick up the slack. I can only protect you so far. You need to snap out of this!"
"I don't need to 'snap out of it,' this is true!"
"Anderson, Sherlock is dead! No matter how much you might wish it, there is no changing that!"
Anderson holds up the print out and shakes it. "Then how to do you explain this?"
"Philip," Greg says softly, "I am saying this out of concern for you, all right? It's effecting your work and it's just not healthy."
"Healthy?" Anderson barks a laugh. "The man faked his death! Oh! And I have a theory on how he did that too, let me show–"
"No, Anderson, no." Greg waves his hand. "Listen to me –"
"I will prove this to you." Anderson jumps up from his chair.
"Anderson," Greg says sternly, "consider this a verbal warning. You need to stop."
Anderson snorts. "Fine. Fine. But I will show you, I will prove it!" He nods twice. "You'll see!"
"Anderson, wait."
But Anderson turns around, yanks open the door and rushes out of Greg's office even as Greg is still speaking. The door hits the wall from Anderson flinging it back but, as far as Greg can see, does not crack the plaster. Greg props both elbows on his desk and rubs his forehead hard. He closes his eyes and imagines a nice, tall glass of beer.
"Sir?" Greg opens his eyes to see Donovan in his doorway. She gestures over her shoulder. "Anderson?"
Greg sighs and shakes his head. "Brought me a newspaper article in Czech."
Donovan walks into the office and crosses her arms. "He's worrying me."
"You're not the only one."
"He's started a group."
Greg frowns. "A group?"
"Yeah, for believers."
Greg blinks hard. "For… for what?"
"He's calling it the 'Empty Hearse Society,' or something like that, for people who believe Sherlock is still alive."
"You're joking."
She tilts her head. "Do I joke?"
"Not much." Greg leans back in his chair and blows a breath out. Then he narrows his eyes. "Is anyone else in this club?"
Donovan shrugs. "Don't know. Not sure which would be worse."
"Yeah, right."
"We've got to do something."
"What, Donovan?" Greg flings his arms out to the sides. "What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know, but we can't just leave him like this!"
Greg's mobile suddenly buzzes on his desk drawing both their eyes. Greg sees Mycroft's name on the screen but he does not pick it up. He looks at Donovan again then sits up.
"We're not just leaving him anywhere, Sally, maybe he'll come around."
"It doesn't look like he is."
"Well, what do you suggest then?"
She sighs and shakes her head. "Something, anything, something to take his mind off it. Off his…" She sighs again. "Guilt."
He tilts his head. "Is he talking to anyone?"
She frowns. "I don't think he'd see a psychologist."
"Well, help him then, Donovan, right?" Greg picks up his coffee. "Got enough on my plate."
Her eyes flick over his desk quickly then she looks at him again. He just raises his eyebrows and picks up a pen off a pile of cases. She swallows once and nods. Then she turns and leaves his office without another word.
Greg takes a sip of coffee then picks up his mobile to see what Mycroft sent:
[09:46] Must cancel our dinner plans tonight. Regrets.
Greg clicks the cap of his pen open and closed three times as he looks at the text. He types, 'why,' then deletes in. He types 'come by later then,' but deletes that as well. His thumb hovers over the letters until the screen goes dark and he has to click it to life again. Finally he sends:
[09:49] All right.
––––––––––
Greg sits beside Mycroft on his couch with a football match playing on the TV. The score is one to one right now but they're only about half way in. Greg has his feet propped up on his coffee table – which he really should just call a 'foot table' or something because that's how he uses it – with a beer in hand. Mycroft sits somewhat stiffly with legs crossed, mobile on the arm of the couch. Greg knows football isn't exactly Mycroft's cup of tea but relationships are compromise after all.
The left midfielder makes a break for the goal with the ball but gets slammed full onto the ground by one of the defense kicking for the ball. Greg laughs loudly then groans almost instantly when a yellow flag is thrown.
Mycroft sighs. "Must you?"
Greg looks at him. "It's football, Mycroft, you're supposed to interact."
"Because they can all hear you."
Greg takes a drink of his beer. "Exactly."
Mycroft only rolls his eyes.
Greg points at Mycroft with his bottle. "I am going to make you like this."
"I won't."
"You try to make me prefer wine; I try to make you like football."
"It is a futile exercise as there is no redeeming value or purpose to watching this sport."
Greg scoffs. "And there is a redeeming value and purpose to wine?"
"We are not comparing the two."
"I am."
"What purpose do you find in watching this?"
"Personal enjoyment."
Mycroft frowns. "A thin reason."
"My enjoyment is a thin reason?"
"You are deliberately misinterpreting me."
Greg sits up straight. "All right." He switches his beer to his other hand so he can brush his fingers through Mycroft's hair. "Don't need to get offended."
Mycroft leans away from Greg's hand and shoots him a look. "It is not offense but an observation."
Greg frowns and drops his hand. "Fine. Observation then."
Greg turns back to the television, slouching against the couch and tapping his feet together twice. The play has resumed now and it does not appear that anyone was thrown out of the game so far. The next goal attempt fails but anyone could see it was going to go wide. Greg takes a drink of his beer, glancing at Mycroft. Mycroft has his mobile in his hand, typing quickly with his other hand. Greg frowns but says nothing. He turns back to the game. At center field again, the referee holds the ball in the air but some idiot down the field make a false start.
"Come on," Greg grumbles.
Suddenly, Mycroft stands up from the couch, typing on his mobile with both hands. Greg's eyes tick back and forth between the TV and Mycroft until Mycroft puts his mobile back in his trouser pocket.
"What's up?" Greg asks.
"I must leave."
"Wha…" Greg sits up straight again. "Is something wrong?"
"This is a waste of my time," Mycroft snaps.
Greg huffs. "Look, I know you don't like –"
"I have things I need to be doing, far more important than…" He frowns.
Greg breathes in once through his nose. "Right, okay, if it's work I understand, you –"
"How you think such a pastime as this is worthy of your attention…"
"Okay, you don't need to attack the sport of football now."
Mycroft groans. "It is mundane."
"You find a lot of things mundane, Mycroft."
"Because many things are."
Greg's shoulders sag. "All right, but…" He taps the couch cushion. "How hard is it to bear –"
"Considerably."
"Mycroft, can you just –"
"It is work, yes, work I should be doing."
"Right now?"
"Yes."
Greg cocks his head. "Is there something going on I should know about? Or is this 'eyes only?'"
"It is not…" Mycroft starts then turns his head away instead.
Greg puts his beer down on the coffee table and stands up. He walks over and touches Mycroft's arm. Mycroft breathes in slowly then looks at Greg again.
"All right." Greg rubs his thumb on Mycroft's arm then drops his hand. "All right."
Mycroft reaches out and runs his hand through Greg's hair. He pulls Greg close by the back of his head and kisses him hard. "Good bye," he whispers then turns away and walks to the door.
Greg hears the flat door close a moment later. He does not know if he should chase Mycroft or not, if this is a reaction, if this is another reaction, if this is nothing at all. He stays standing for several minutes until he backs up a step, picks up the TV remote from the table and turns the TV off.
––––––––––
Greg holds a red tie in one hand and a black tie in the other. A black tie is easy and usually looks good but he also has no other color in his outfit what with a black suit. Does it really matter anyway? Whatever tie Mycroft wears will undoubtedly be nicer. Then again, his outfit should not be based off Mycroft. They are not that couple.
"Or maybe no tie?" Greg frowns and wishes, for not the first time, he had a mirror in his bedroom. He could go into the bathroom, yeah, but back and forth like that gets irritating. "To hell with it." He sticks the black tie back on the tie hanger in his closet and goes with the red.
He drapes the tie around his neck but does not tie it yet. He crosses to the dresser and picks up the watch Mycroft gave him. He only wears it some of the time due to monetary worth and his unpredictable proximity to blood or worse. He hooks it around his wrist then straightens it and checks the time. He still has about thirty minutes. He should probably call a cab in a few minutes unless he feels like gambling with just hailing one out on the street.
Greg rubs a hand over his face. "Had to go out…"
He walks down the hall to the bathroom to tie his tie. Then his mobile vibrates.
"Better not be work," Greg says as he pulls it out of his suit jacket pocket.
Mycroft [7:02]: I do apologize but I must cancel our dinner reservation for tonight.
Greg frowns and yanks his tie off. He texts back.
[7:02]: Why?
Mycroft [7:02]: Unfortunately, something came up which requires my attention.
"Are you kidding..."
[7:03]: Something?
Mycroft [7:03]: Yes.
[7:03]: Something what?
Mycroft [7:03]: Just something
Greg sighs and drops his hand. "Something? Can't give me anything more?"
He already sounds like he is being accusatory and anything else he can think of to text only sounds worse in his head. Saying 'but we had plans' to a man who might be in charge of the entire national security of England seems particularly trite. But Greg can't help feeling like it must be something else, be Mycroft reacting, be Greg's fault.
He looks at his mobile again. He clicks Mycroft's number to call but changes back to text instead.
[7:05]: Fine.
Greg sighs and shakes his head. "Stupid." He feels like he's a fifteen year old girl with her first crush, 'pay attention to me' or the like. Perhaps this is relationship growing pains. He wants to give Mycroft his space for his work, for Sherlock, for whatever goes on in Mycroft's head but he cannot keep that up forever. Hands off is not always the answer and maybe it's not just all about Mycroft. But what can he do?
Greg walks out of the bathroom and throws the tie toward his bedroom. Then he turns and heads toward the kitchen to make some dinner for one.
The next day Greg gets a silver card, delivered by another smart suited courier:
I am sorry. Please smile.
–Mycroft
Greg wonders if Mycroft means his request in jest or because he stalked Greg's facial expression on CCTV. However, the signature, first name only, at the end catches Greg's attention more than anything. He smiles.
––––––––––
David sits across from Greg at the pub, small table to themselves and two empty glasses between them. Greg keeps staring at the wall to the left of David's head trying not to check his mobile every minute or, alternatively, throw it across the room.
"All right," David says making Greg look at him. "We've talked about mum and dad finally back in the country. We talked about Rory, Edward and Timothy."
"We didn't talk about Edward."
"Which son is he?"
Greg frowns. "No middle child jokes."
David grins. "Too late."
Greg takes a gulp of his beer. "Ha."
"And, we did a passing hit on your work and exciting murder. So can we finally move into the meat of this?"
"The meat?"
"Do you want me to pick one? Pork, how about?" Greg sighs. David taps his glass on the table. "So what's up with you and Mycroft, then?"
"Nothing is up."
"Yes, there is. You're doing your 'I'm fucking up my relationship' dance."
Greg frowns again. "Dance?"
"You finish your first beer in under a minute. You ignore your mobile to the point where it's odd. You keep staring at the wall at every break in the conversation." David points to the wall to his right, Greg's left. "And you talk about mom and dad."
"We talk about mum and dad all the time."
David snorts. "Right."
"Okay, maybe only sometimes but they did just come back from their trip."
"Second one this year."
"See."
David finishes his glass of beer then leans over the table. "Man up, Greg."
"I think you're just trying to live vicariously through me."
"Do you argue this insistently with your friends?"
Greg rolls his glass around between his hands. David copies Greg with his empty glass until Greg smiles. David wiggles his eyebrows then slides out of their booth toward the bar. Greg sighs and stares at his glass until David slides back into the booth with two more beers
He slides one glass into the center for Greg. "So?"
"I'm not sure what's wrong."
"Not sure how?"
"Well… I don't know if this is about his brother or about me or if it's just work. He's just…" Greg sighs because it sounds so stupid. "Distant."
"Distant how?"
"He up and left when we were watching football the other day."
"I thought he didn't like football?"
"Yeah, but how hard is it to just sit and watch it for a night?"
"Ask Jane."
Greg sighs. "All right, bad example, but he's just… canceling plans on me last minute, seeming… well…" David raises his eyebrows. Greg takes another drink of his beer. "Look, I don't know, all right, something is off. I know it sounds like shite but I can just feel it."
"It's not shite," David says.
Greg smiles briefly. "Thanks."
"Could just be about his brother, right? You said he hadn't talked to you at all about it."
"True."
"What else then?"
"I think maybe I'm pushing him."
"Into what?"
"Into us."
"You're already an 'us.'"
"I meant more."
David drinks some of his beer and cocks his head. "You're not making sense."
"I think maybe I'm pushing him too much into… I don't know, domesticity?"
"Are you really so domestic? Is this about the cooking?"
"I'm serious."
"You two have been seeing each other for months, more than six months now, yeah? What's pushing?"
"This is Mycroft."
"Yeah, and you're you, what does he expect?"
"I don't know, patience, maybe? Maybe I'm just…" Greg sighs and holds his glass against his forehead. "I think I'm thinking too much."
"Now that's the sanest thing you've said all night."
"Thank you."
"Greg, relationships ebb and flow. Sometimes when you hit milestones or big events people freak out, pull back or push harder. Maybe that's all it is. You hit six months, his brother died, you finally saw his house." Greg laughs. David grins and taps the table. "You're just settling into being a real couple now and not just a marriage rebound."
Greg frowns. "He's not a marriage rebound."
"Because he broke up the marriage?"
Greg snorts. "Oh yeah, right. Damn home wrecker Holmes."
"See, it works too well to be false."
Greg chuckles again and sips some of his beer. David holds up his glass and they clink together.
"It's going to work itself out."
Greg raises both eyebrows. "Why, because you like him more than Anne?"
"Did I say that?"
"Didn't you?"
"He's refreshingly different than Anne."
"Oh well, now that's a ringing endorsement."
David shrugs. "When we're talking about possible problems in the relationship I should reserve all judgment."
"You just said it'll work out."
"Just in case."
Greg sighs. "You're a help."
"Hey, I have been wrong on the rare occasion."
Greg chuckles and shrugs. "Well, let's hope not this time."
"Hey, really though." David points with the hand holding his glass. "He spent all that time trying to get you, why would he quit now?"
––––––––––
Greg and Mycroft walk down the street together, one bag of shopping in Greg's hand including an anniversary gift for Claire. Mycroft's hand keeps brushing the back of Greg's free hand, his fingers tapping Greg's, occasionally griping tight then letting go again. They pass a shop for stationary supplies, a newish looking restaurant, and a pub that has every space full. All around a normal, quiet evening in London.
Mycroft grips Greg's hand again as they walk, fingers threaded together. Greg turns and looks at him. Mycroft looks straight ahead at the pavement in front of them.
"Mycroft?"
Mycroft glances at Greg. "I could have found a car for us."
Greg smiles. "It's not exactly cold out or far to walk."
"But you would not have to carry your bag."
Greg chuckles this time. "Mycroft, it's not heavy."
"It would have been quicker."
"We're not in a hurry, you know."
"I…" Mycroft sighs and his hands clenches once around Greg's, probably unconsciously. "I only wish to do what I can."
"For me?"
"For you while I can."
"'While I can?'" Greg squeezes Mycroft's hand. "Who says I'm going anywhere?"
"Everyone changes, Greg, everything changes."
"It can be good though.
Mycroft tilts his head, still looking at the street. "People move beyond our reach and though we wish we could do more, protect them, they are too far. They move on their own no matter how you may wish they were not on that path. You want to keep them close but it is impossible despite all you do."
Mycroft is not talking about Greg.
"You always did what you could, Mycroft."
Mycroft glances at Greg and his jaw clenches. "'Could' does not feel like enough."
"People make their own choices."
"Ha," Mycroft says quietly, "And they often do that so well. Choices lead to the state we are in and often it is undesirable, thrown half way across the world or worse due to those choices." Greg bites his lip but does not try to argue whatever metaphor Mycroft seems to be grasping for. Mycroft shoots a look at Greg then turns back to the street in front of them. "I fear it is never ending."
"It will get better," Greg says.
Mycroft looks at him. "Better?"
"You and Sherlock may have had your problems but I think he knew what you really felt about him under it all."
Mycroft opens his mouth then shuts it again right away. He frowns and drops Greg's hand. "Of course."
"Mycroft, you can –"
"What?" Mycroft snaps suddenly. "I can what?"
Greg sighs and stops walking, so Mycroft halts a few steps in front of him. "You don't have to worry, all right?"
Mycroft scoffs harshly. "Oh, would that were true, Greg."
"Mycroft, I only –"
"It does not matter. I want..." Mycroft breathes in deeply and touches Greg's shoulder. "May we just," he waves a hand out in front of them, "go home?"
Greg smiles slowly and sighs. He rubs a hand through his hair and nods. "Yeah, we can… go home."
––––––––––
Greg stands beside a body with Sergeant Bell on his left. Around them, old factory buildings tower, more covered in graffiti than not. The area is mostly in disuse making it not an uncommon dumping ground. The man lying before them certainly does not seem to have been killed here but it also might not have been far off.
"No witnesses," Bell is saying, "the kids that found him were here to skateboard."
"Or so they said," Gupta says as she appears at Bell's side holding some papers. "Sworn statements. Not very interesting."
"Thanks, Parni," Bell says, with a purr on Gupta's name.
Gupta frowns, giving Bell a double take. Bell winks at her. Gupta sighs and straightens her hat. "You're hilarious. Watch I don't tell Ted."
"Go ahead."
Gupta frowns again as she turns around and heads back toward the crime scene tape line.
Greg nudges Bell. "What's that?"
Bell laughs. "Oh, Gupta has a new girlfriend. Should see the face she makes when she's on her mobile."
"I meant about Clipton."
Bell clears her throat carefully and keeps Greg's eye contact. "Nothing at all."
"Hmm." Greg turns back to the body. "Watch that."
"Yes, sir."
Greg crouches down next to the body, superficial wounds as well as three deep stab wounds which are likely the cause of death. Greg sees some blood under the finger nails, could be the killer's. He looks up again at Bell then peers around the crime scene.
"Where is Anderson?" He asks as he stands up again. "He's on forensics for this."
"I don't –" Then Anderson skids into Bell's side with his kit in one hand and a roll of papers in the other. "Christ!"
Bell glares at Anderson as he breathes heavily. He gives her a glare back then looks expectantly at Greg. Greg stares then turns to Bell and nods her away. She opens her mouth but closes it again without saying anything. She walks away behind Anderson and shoots Greg a 'you sure you want to do that' face.
"This." Anderson holds out his roll of papers to Greg. "Look at this."
"Is this a Czech newspaper article?"
Anderson laughs. "God no, certainly not!" Anderson puts down his kit at his feet. "There is a German one, a Japanese one, and, and!" He slides next to Greg and begins to unfold the stack of rolled papers. "The map, this map. Look, I have red dots on what I know must be confirmed, well confirmed as I can, locations. The green are just suspect. I could –"
"Anderson, what did I tell you –"
"All right, all right, none of this is really confirmed, I haven't been out there. But if you know what to look for you can see –"
"Anderson!" Greg snaps. "You have a body you need to work on." Greg points at the ground. "Right here!"
Anderson looks over his shoulder then turns back around with a laugh. "Well, he's not going anywhere."
"Anderson!"
"If you could look –"
"Go home."
Anderson stops and looks up from the map. "What?"
"Go home, Anderson, I'm suspending you for the rest of the week."
Anderson's jaw drops. "What!"
"No accessing the database, no searching through Sherlock's old cases – I know you have been. No cross access to EU police records. You need to get your mind out of this!"
"You can't be serious."
"I am. You are suspended as of right now." Anderson grips the papers but Greg pulls them back. "No, I'm keeping these. You don't need this."
"That is –"
"Go home now and I will see you back on Monday."
Anderson's lip trembles once, he frowns deeply then turns around and stalks away, nearly running over PC's Peters and Avery as he goes. Greg crosses his arms and watches until he sees Anderson get into his car. At the caution tape line Bell, Gupta, Avery and Peter all stare at him. He just shakes his head then waves them over. Avery remains at the caution tape as the other three jog over.
"Right, Bell, call the station to get us someone for forensics."
"But Anderson was..." Peters starts.
Greg only shakes his head. "No, he's not. Peters and Avery, you two are going to help me with the preliminary account of the scene until forensics gets here. Avery there should be a camera in someone's car. Peters, I know there are some evidence bags in the truck of my car, could you?"
The three of them nod and all turn at once away from him. Greg stays standing beside the body, apparently his only company now. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. First he clicks into his texts. No new messages. Then he clicks Donovan's number and dials.
She answers on the second ring. "Greg?"
"Hi Sally, I know it's your personal line, sorry, but..." He sighs. "Would you mind checking on Anderson sometime this week? I had to suspend him."
"You suspended him?"
"Just until Monday but, well, he's getting worse."
He hears her breathe in and huff it out again. "Yeah, yeah I will."
"Thanks." Greg hangs up and stares at the face of his mobile. He clicks into his texts again, a short list – David, his mate Paul, Claire, and Mycroft at the top. No new messages. Greg clicks off the screen and puts the mobile back in his pocket.
––––––––––
Greg moves around Mycroft's kitchen gathering ingredients and spices and two spatulas. Several dishes are in progress at once. The potatoes dauphinoise are slowly cooking and at the moment Greg chops courgettes. The chicken should go into the oven soon as well. Mycroft sits at the table behind Greg with a glass of white wine.
"Could you find me a pot for these?" Greg asks over his shoulder as he puts one courgette on his cutting board.
"I believe you already have one."
Greg chops the end off the courgette and pushes it to the side, shooting Mycroft a frown. "I think it'll end up being too small."
"It won't."
"Mycroft, I just need a pot. Not that hard."
Mycroft stands up and puts his wine down on the table. He walks across to the counter a little way down from Greg then crouches low and opens the bottom cabinet. He stands again with a pot in hand, slightly larger than Greg's rejected pot. Mycroft puts it down on the counter beside Greg's right hand.
"Thank you."
"The other would have sufficed but as you wish."
"All right." Greg drops the knife he is chopping with and turns around to face Mycroft. "What is it?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What is going on with you?"
Mycroft presses his lips together, fingers tapping once over the counter. "There is nothing 'going on,' as you say."
"Obviously there is, Mycroft. You're lecturing me about pot size."
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "It is obvious."
"The pot or you?"
Mycroft sighs. "Both."
"Well, the 'you' is not obvious to me." Greg crosses his arms. "So what is it?"
Mycroft sighs again. "Are you not trying to make dinner? Why must this be a conversation? Must everything be a conversation? I have told you relationships are not as simple for me as they are for you."
"I never said relationships were simple, Mycroft. They never are."
"Then why do you insist?"
"Because I want us to be okay! I want you to be okay but you're pulling away from me."
"I am right here."
Greg groans. "You know what I mean." He rubs a hand through his hair. "Is this about Sherlock, is that what it is?"
Mycroft huffs. "My God, no. It is not about Sherlock. Everything is not always about my brother."
"But you're –"
"I have obligations, Greg, responsibilities which may supersede you."
"Supersede me?"
"It is not easy to slow myself down to your pace."
"I... what do you mean?" Greg shakes his head and crosses his arms. "That does not make sense."
"Exactly!"
Greg groans and rubs a hand over his face. He looks away at the cabinets then turns back to Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't understand why you are doing this. We're happy!"
"I did not say we were not happy."
"Well then, what, because it's like you're just fighting me."
Mycroft clenches his fist and shakes his head. "I am not fighting you."
Greg laughs once. "Yes, you are. You're obviously pulling away."
"Oh, you can tell that, can you?"
"Mycroft... what do you want me to do?"
Mycroft sighs and turns away slightly. "Perhaps it has nothing to do with you."
"Perhaps?"
Mycroft paces across the kitchen, touches his wine glass on the table but does not pick it up. He watches his feet as he walks then glances at Greg again. Greg raises his eyebrows, waiting.
"I have said before relationships are not my forte; In general I avoid them, as you know."
"Yes."
"And this is as 'long term' as I have ever been. It is unsettling in many ways." He breathes in slowly and his eyes shift away from Greg. "And it is... difficult to be this." He waves a hand toward the counter where pieces of dinner are spread out. "I have a role, duties to keep to."
"This isn't about your work."
"And you know this?"
"It's a weak excuse."
"Then perhaps it is how I must temper myself to your mundane level of skill and observation for the simple world around you!"
Greg grits his teeth and breathes in deeply twice. He frowns and digs his fingers into his arms. "We both know how smart you are, Mycroft, but you're not like Sherlock was. You're just not." He uncrosses his arms and puts his hands on his hips. "And don't you say I'm some sort of burden to you, because I'm not."
"I..." Mycroft touches his finger tips to the table as if he needs just that bit of support. "No..." He breathes in shakily. "You are not a burden."
"Look..." Greg gestures between them with one hand. "I want us to work, all right? I want to be here with you. You need to meet me half way."
Mycroft steps closer and suddenly takes Greg's hand. He threads their fingers together and touches the back of Greg's hand with his other hand. "I want you here, Greg." He looks up from their hands. "I do."
"Good." Greg squeezes Mycroft's hand. "What then?"
Mycroft sighs. "I will do as I can, Greg."
Greg smiles and touches Mycroft's neck. "Okay, all I ask." He kisses Mycroft then glances at the counter. "I should probably try to save dinner now."
Mycroft chuckles. "I believe you should be able."
"I do have skill in the kitchen."
"And elsewhere."
Greg laughs. "Glad you noticed."
––––––––––
Greg and Mycroft lie beside each other in bed, Mycroft's glorious king size bed. Mycroft has sweat along his hair line, his expression half asleep. Greg touches Mycroft's hair, rubs some of the sweat away.
Mycroft chuckles. "Such a messy business."
Greg laughs back. "You didn't seem to mind ten minutes ago."
"Did you?"
"I don't mind now."
Mycroft smiles and rolls onto his side. He reaches over and runs his hand through Greg's hair, back and forward, pushing his hair in the wrong direction then flattening it down again. Greg smiles, closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling of Mycroft's hand.
"Keep going if you want me to fall asleep," Greg murmurs.
"That easy, are you?"
Greg smiles. "It's soothing."
"I can tell."
Greg opens his eyes again. "Well, you're the one obsessed with my hair."
"Am I obsessed?"
"Yeah."
"I think obsessed is a strong word. 'Fond' would be more appropriate."
Greg runs a lazy hand down Mycroft's neck and onto his chest. "Whatever word you want." He traces a line over Mycroft's chest, down his stomach and around his side. "Doesn't matter to me."
Mycroft's hand slides down Greg's hairline, and around the back of his head. He pulls Greg closer and kisses him, slow but insistent like he needs to breathe Greg in. His other hand slides along Greg's hip but they're definitely both old enough now that another round is not in the making so soon. Still Greg presses closer to Mycroft, just that feeling of skin against skin. Then Mycroft rolls Greg onto his back and slides on top of Greg. Greg laughs as Mycroft kisses him again, his one leg slipping between Greg's.
"Oh, if only," Greg says and runs a hand along Mycroft's back. "Younger, eager lover."
Mycroft groans. "Oh horrid, do people says such things?"
"What, young and eager or lover?"
"The entirety."
Greg just grins and wiggles his toes on Mycroft's ankle. Mycroft sighs and kisses Greg at his pulse point. "I am also not so young, Greg." He pulls back and raises an eyebrow. "The joys of middle age."
Greg squeezes a hand on Mycroft's hip. "I'm all right with these joys." He kisses Mycroft twice. "Soon you'll be forty-five and really feel it."
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "You and your siblings' focus on age is baffling. As if it some accurate barometer for experience."
"Hey, fifty is a frightening sight coming toward you."
"Age is not a predator."
"But time is."
"Oh god..."
Greg laughs quietly and runs his hands lazily up and down Mycroft's sides. Mycroft smiles and holds himself up just enough on his elbows over Greg. His hands rest on either side of Greg's neck, finger tips making slow circles. He sighs in a contented way and shifts to the side off of Greg, one leg and arm still draped across Greg. Greg turns his head and watches Mycroft, both of them fading closer to sleep.
"If only we could just stay here," Mycroft whispers.
"Here in your bed?"
Mycroft smiles. "Yes, just right here, now."
Greg kisses Mycroft again. "We can."
Mycroft smile fades a little. "I wish we could."
––––––––––
Greg walks through the door of Mycroft's house, the front door unlocked in expectation of him. He glances in the living room, sees the table by the window empty. He looks down the hall but he can tell no one is in the kitchen. He climbs the stairs and walks down the hall until he turns into the upstairs sitting room, leather chairs in front of the fire place with Mycroft standing in front of his row of glass bottles.
"Hey." Mycroft turns at Greg's voice, glass in hand. "You called? What's up?"
"Yes." Mycroft puts the glass in his hand down on the small table. "Would you sit?"
Greg takes two steps forward then stops. "You want me to sit?"
"It would be best."
Greg frowns and sees the body language Mycroft would not think about. "Why?"
"You needn't be suspicious. I merely asked you to sit."
"That's a lie." Greg crosses his arms. "What's wrong?"
Mycroft clears his throat. "I wished to speak about us."
"Oh?"
Mycroft presses his lips together and touches the knot of his tie, though he does not adjust it in any way. He drops his hand and looks Greg purposely in the eye. "This between us needs to end."
Greg stares for two beats. "What?"
"You and I, our relationship, this, needs to end."
"As in break up?"
"If you must use such a juvenile phrasing, yes."
"You... no, we talked about –"
"Yes, we did, Greg but the basic facts are not changed. I am not a man who maintains friendships, let alone serious relationships."
"Is that the problem, you think we're too serious? We can –"
"No, Greg, it is the relationship at all. I never intended nor expected our relationship to progress this way or last so long."
"Things change, Mycroft. Relationships don't follow plans. That doesn't mean you just bail because it's not on your script."
"I said nothing about a plan."
"You said you intended –"
"Do not deliberately twist my words!" Mycroft snaps. "And it hardly matters. You and I cannot be maintained; my mind will not allow it nor will my position in the government, as you well know. I have more important things to spend my time on."
"More important, you –"
Mycroft cuts him off, "I meant just as I said and surely you can comprehend my meaning."
"Mycroft, I don't –"
"It is done, Greg." Mycroft interrupts again. "That is all I have to say."
"No," Greg says sharply so Mycroft's mouth finally clicks closed. Greg points at him. "I'm not letting you give up on this."
Mycroft frowns. "It is not a joint decision."
"You said before this was a gamble, a gamble that had paid off."
"If one keeps gambling they will eventually lose."
"We're not going to trade metaphors!" Greg snaps.
"Then I will spell it out for you, Greg," Mycroft says with venom. "We are over. The relationship is done. I can no longer afford these types of attachments. Shall I say it another way?"
"Attachments?"
"By which I mean you," Mycroft growls. "A man in my position…"
"Oh! Your position!" Greg gasps loudly. "So is that what this is, you're choosing work over me?"
"I am choosing England over you!" Mycroft shouts.
Greg grits his teeth together and stays very still to keep from kicking the chair, the wall, Mycroft. He breathes through his nose slowly and controls his voice. "So all the time and effort you – you not me – put into pursuing me, to winning me over, to making this happen…" Greg shrugs. "Now it's just queen and country?"
Mycroft smiles in a thin line. "Yes."
"No, it's not! That is not it!" Greg shouts, unable to keep himself in check. "What is wrong with you?"
"I have made my decision," Mycroft snaps back. "You will simply have to live with it!"
"You're just afraid!"
"Get out of my house!" Mycroft shouts.
Greg growls, "Make me!"
"I could."
Greg stares at Mycroft, his indifferent gaze, and the grand room around them. He wants to step closer but instead he balls his hands into fists and tries not to scream. He breathes in a few times, staring at Mycroft as Mycroft stares at the wall to the left of Greg.
"Please," Greg whispers, "don't push me away,"
Mycroft presses his lips together tightly then looks at the windows. "Goodbye, Greg."
"Please!"
"Goodbye, Greg," Mycroft repeats.
And Greg moves, turns around, walks out before he can do or say anything else rash. He rushes into the hall, hits the stairs and feels like he falls as walks down and out the front door. When the door closes behind him and he hits the side walk, Greg realizes he is hyperventilating. He bends in half and holds himself up with his hands on his thighs. Greg focuses on breathing in and out to calm himself down. The sidewalk in front of him is impeccably white, not a crack. Greg's eyes slip to his own hands, matching white from the effort to stay still, gray cuffs of his coat caught between his palms and legs. Gray coat… He's wearing the coat Mycroft gave him.
Greg heaves himself up again. He pulls the coat off his arms and throws it violently onto the ground in front of him. He turns away with his hands over his face. He feels nauseous. He wants a cigarette. He wants ten. He wants to sit down on the kerb and pass out.
Greg drops his hands from his face, Mycroft's house in front of him and the coat lying behind him. Mycroft is everywhere Greg looks. Greg blows a slow breath out as he buttons his suit jacket. Then he turns around again and picks the coat up off the ground. He does not put it back on. Greg stares at the street for a few seconds. He does not look back up at Mycroft's house. He breathes in sharply then turns left to find a taxi.
