I don't own these characters.
Summary: Mycroft and Greg have a History.
Mycroft started telling Sherlock that caring is not an advantage when he was sixteen. He lost his virginity to a boy with spiky brown hair and a motorbike who held him afterwards and promised he'd call. He never called.
Years later, when Sherlock was picked up on a drug charge that wouldn't stick, Mycroft looked into those same brown eyes that had watched him write his phone number on a scrap of neon pink paper with shaking hands when he was sixteen. He pretended he didn't remember.
Sometimes he wondered if Gregory Lestrade remembered the scrawny ginger boy he spent a night with at a party and never spoke to again.
Greg remembers. He remembers spotting the boy from across the room, remembers talking the shy boy into a snog, the rush of heat like nothing Greg had felt before, remembers taking him in someone's parents' bed upstairs.
He remembers holding the boy as he slept, thinking that this could be the start of something.
He remembers watching the boy scrawl his phone number on a scrap of concert flyer Greg had then stuffed into his jeans pocket.
Greg remembers realizing that they hadn't even exchanged last names, and a feeling of hopelessness when he found his jeans in a pile of freshly laundered clothes on his bed. The scrap of paper was illegible, unrecognizable. He wondered if his mum knew what she had just done, but he couldn't exactly tell her. She had been trying to do something nice, picking up and washing his dirty clothes.
He had tried to track 'Mike' down, but none of his friends from the party knew the boy.
When he finally found him, neither of them boys anymore, he was three days away from his wedding anniversary, not a cheater, but the thought of getting a peek underneath that suit was a tempting one.
By some unspoken agreement, they didn't speak of it. They pretended they had no history. They were such good actors that they each doubted that the other was acting at all, if maybe the other man wasn't the boy from years ago.