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They sat in silence again after that, but the silence was comfortable. It was not pregnant with tension, but was occupied with soft noises that filled the space between them. The rumbling of the engine, the whisper of the air conditioner, the grunts that Greg made when they passed a particularly lovely spot.
They reached their hotel in record time thanks to Mycroft's heavy foot, and the skillfulness of his diving ability once they arrived in town. He weaved in and out of traffic like a professional, earning an admiring look from Greg, but it was nothing compared to the gaping awe on the inspector's face as they pulled up to a massive, opulent hotel. It was aging, gilded, absolutely Mycroft Holmes, through and through, and as the valet parked the black sedan, Greg turned to blink at his companion. "I would have been fine with a hostel."
"I know." Mycroft said silkily. With that he walked forward and pushed past the grand double doors, entering a tastefully decorated lobby. With a purposeful step, he made his way to the front desk. The woman behind it smiled, asking how she could be of service. The elder Holmes brother's Italian was impeccable as he procured the cards to their rooms. He had booked them an adjoining suite, prudence dictating that he should, under no circumstances, repeat the same rooming situations as the previous night. Turning back once more to the almost cowed detective, Mycroft flashed him a smile. "Your key." He said smoothly, holding it out to the man.
Gregory took it with a flashing smile and a slightly abashed expression. "Thank you," he mumbled, looking about the lobby, terribly aware of how very out of place he must look. Mycroft, even in his casual clothes, looked perfectly at home. His stance, his face, his body language.. everything about the man screamed nobility. Greg caught a glance of himself in a long mirrored wall, and he winced. He was scruffy. There was no other word for it. He followed the other man to the lift, scratching self consciously at his neck, ignoring the subtle glances he was receiving from the other guests. Once upstairs, Mycroft led them to their rooms quietly, and pointed to Greg's door. The inspector ducked his head. "Thanks," he said again, softly.
"If you have need of me, do not hesitate to knock. Our rooms are connected." Mycroft clutched his card key, hoping that didn't sound too... forward or betray the sudden flutters he felt in his stomach. If he had need of him? What the hell would he need of him for? "Goodnight, Gregory. I will text you when it is time to leave." His nose wrinkled a little at the need for texting. He really had no taste for the process. It was such a waste of time. He much preferred to talk and use his hands for other things.
Greg nodded, and slipped inside of his room, shutting the door behind him. He stood in the entryway for several seconds, gazing in shock and a touch of delight at the surroundings. The room was richly furnished, and the bed was easily large enough for four people. He disrobed immediately, stripping down to his pants and nothing else, and he climbed in the plush bed, pulling the mounds of velvet and silk over his body. He lay for long minutes, groaning in satisfaction. Greg liked comfort. He was not a wealthy man, and he did not need such things, but damn. They were nice. After a few minutes, his ears perked. Mycroft was shuffling about in the next room, no doubt laying his things out for the next day, and Greg grinned, reaching for the mobile he'd placed on the bedside table.
Mycroft, you there? - Lestrade
Mycroft heard his camera phone buzz while he was in the middle of lying his clothing out for the next day. Picking the mobile up, he sat down heavily on the vast bed, flopping down so that he was lying across the width of the mattress. Lestrade? What on earth was he texting him for so soon?
Obviously. What is it? - MH
What could Gregory possibly need from him?
You said you'd text me in the morning when it was time to go. Can't we have some breakfast? - Lestrade
I don't see why we couldn't. I will wake you up early, then. - MH
Mycroft set the phone down and shimmied out of his trousers, yanking the shirt off as well. With a sigh he crawled into the covers, dressed only in his pants. Picking up the phone he set it next to his head, staring at it in a sort of surprised, wary, and slightly melancholic fashion. The great empty space in the covers seemed more apparent that night than it had in a very, very long time. Mycroft found himself wishing for company. He swallowed hard and angrily punched a down pillow. This was absurd! Ridiculous. One night in the company of another person and he was turning into this wishy washy pile? Unacceptable.
There was a long period of silence in which the electric hum of a television could be heard vibrating from Greg's hotel room. Mycroft had almost fallen asleep when his mobile buzzed again.
Greg was lying in his opulent bed, grinning, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
Want to order some room service? You've got to be starved. - Lestrade
At first the elder Holmes brother was mildly irate when he heard his mobile buzz, but when he saw the text he smiled a little and rolled over on his stomach.
Meaning, I take it, that you are more than peckish? - MH
More than a little. A lot. Come on over, we'll watch telly and eat. Order us something. You're paying. And drinks, order us drinks. I want to get pissed. - Lestrade
With a slight reminder that he was supposed to be putting as much distance from him and the talkative detective as possible, Mycroft got up, reluctantly pulled his trousers and shirt on, and padded to the door. Clutching a soft red robe to his chest, Mycroft knocked lightly on the door before he opened it and peered around, blinking somewhat owlishly in the dim lighting. "May I come in?" He asked softly.
Greg yelped a little, surprised at the swift acquiescence, and he tossed his phone aside, gesturing him over. "Come on!" he said merrily, hopping out of bed and fumbling in his bag for a pair of jersey knit trousers he often wore to jog. The Scotland Yard emblem was blazoned on the front pocket, and he pulled them on one leg at a time, leaving his chest bare. "Did you order yet?" he asked, glad to have the company tonight. He didn't want to spend the night thinking about home, and his ex, and his empty flat.
"No, I was going to order with the phone in this room. It's easier." Mycroft smiled briefly, crossing the room with more than slightly hesitant steps. "I hope you don't mind." Why did Gregory have to be shirtless? Furthermore, why did he have to have such a perfectly formed torso? Mycroft blanched at the thought of ever taking his own shirt off around the man. Hell would freeze over first. He stood by the bed, slightly nonplussed at the situation he found himself in. "What would you like me to order?" He asked after a short while.
"Anything." Greg threw himself on the bed, stretching noisily and grabbing at the remote, as if afraid Mycroft would reach it first and change the telly to some public broadcasting programme. He was currently watching an Italian talk show, and it looked interesting, except for one thing. "Hurry," he barked as Mycroft raised his phone to his ear. "You have to translate for me, I can't understand a bloody word of this. Get me a beer!" he reminded the man in as loud a voice as possible.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, secretly glad of the raucous behaviour. He could tell there was a reason behind the sudden attitude shift, but he wasn't concerned about that right now. He simply wanted to keep his mind off of unwanted areas, and the more annoying Gregory acted the better. Ordering a bottle of champagne, one six pack of beer, several different foodstuffs, Mycroft finally put the phone down and turned to find Gregory staring at the telly, completely absorbed despite his lack of a translator. "They're talking about a new book." Mycroft said softly, still standing near the bed. "It's thoroughly uninteresting. I'm sure you could find a decent film playing." He turned his attention to the telly as well, leaning against the wall and making a face as one of the women on the programme squealed.
Reluctantly, with much sighing and grimacing, Greg held out the remote control, cocking his head at Mycroft and eyeing the space next to him with uplifted eyebrows. "Find us something good to watch, eh?" he asked, yawning. "Nothing based on a book. No art films. Unless there's nudity." He laughed at his own joke, and waited for Mycroft with a look of impatience. Was he just going to stand there all night?
Mycroft accepted the remote and swiftly navigated through the channels, finally deciding on an English movie, as he was quite sure Lestrade would not wish to read subtitles. "There." He said simply, setting the remote down and perching on the very edge of the bed. "Ocean's 11." Mycroft folded his hands neatly in his lap and stared over at Lestrade. "No nudity, I am afraid." He smiled a little at that and turned his attention to the screen, fully prepared to watch the film. This being one of the movies he enjoyed, despite the absurdity of it.
This was good, It didn't need translation, and it was a guy movie. Greg listened to Mycroft quietly dissect the action sequences, and he laughed at the man's indignation at the improbabilities of the film. Mycroft was even smiling a bit, and that was a huge step in the right direction. When room service came, Greg popped up from the bed, eager enough to answer the door. He brought the trays inside, bearing the alcohol in his arms, and he toppled into the bed with a laugh. "Thanks," he said once more to Mycroft, but he meant it. His grin was genuine, and the dark eyes twinkled. "I promise I won't try to feed you again," he leered a little, snickering.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and plucked a piece of bruschetta from one of the platters, nibbling delicately at it. "Good." He said simply, taking up the bottle of champagne and pouring himself a glass. "I don't take well to that sort of thing. No one would dare try anymore." The smile that flitted across his face was a thin, triumphant one. He had long since overcome the stage in his life where people felt so free as to pop food in his mouth, or to ruffle his hair, or to guffaw good naturedly at a few of his more abnormal antics. And Mycroft was grateful for that. He had only ever encountered one man who consistently tried to do those things, and that was his assistant Morgan. However, Morgan had learnt the hard way that Mycroft was not a man to be messed with. He did not appreciate people in his space. Mycroft took another, larger bite of the bruschetta and turned his attention back to the movie.
Greg popped the top of a can of ice cold beer, and settled back on the bed with one hand wrapped around the can, and the other bearing a very large sandwich. He took a huge bite, grunting with appreciation, and he washed it down with a gulp. "Hey." His eyes narrowed at the prim fellow, perched on the edge of the bed, sipping delicately at a glass of champagne and nibbling at a tiny wedge of crispy bruschetta. "What the hell are you doing?"
Mycroft, startled, looked up at Gregory in surprise. "I would think that was obvious." he said cautiously. Had he changed his mind? Did he want him to leave now? The elder Holmes brother waited for his companion to explain his sudden outburst. Mycroft was not at all used to being spoken in such tones, and he did not at all appreciate it.
"Get the fuck up here." Greg leaned forward, setting his beer aside long enough to grab Mycroft by the shirt collar and he pulled the man onto the bed, grinning. Hell, he needed to loosen up. He picked up his beer again, knocking it cheerfully against the glass in Mycroft's hand. "There. Isn't that better?" he asked, taking a long drink.
Mycroft gaped at him, straightening his collar and trying to regain his pride. He did not answer Gregory, instead sat very, very still, his hand frozen on the now wet champagne flute. He glanced down at where the liquid had sloshed on his trousers and bath robe. What the HELL had just happened? What made this obtuse… tactile man think he could be so forward? No one EVER acted like this! Mycroft didn't know how to take it. Gregory sat beside him, stretched out and comfortable, lying across the width of the bed and munching steadily on his sandwich, seemingly blissfully oblivious to Mycroft's discomfort. This was not at all how he had expected his evening to go. But then again that seemed to be a consistent phenomenon with Gregory Lestrade.
The detective inspector burst out laughing at something on the telly, once more settling a bit into the plush comfort of the bed, and he looked across at the man now sitting very stiffly next to him, unmoving. Greg sighed, finishing off his sandwich and dusting the crumbs from the bed as he cracked open another beer. "Look," he mumbled quietly, reaching for a plate of crackers. "You've got to let your guard down sometimes, Mycroft. I understand," he said swiftly, before Mycroft's open mouth could voice the protest he knew was forming. "I get it. Queen and country, vigilance, all that rot. But come on, man. It's just us here right now. No surveillance, no cameras, no danger. There's time for that tomorrow. Tonight..." He elbowed him in the ribs, gently. "I mean, look at you. You're wearing trousers, for fuck's sake." Greg gestured to himself, and his nearly naked, very comfortable state. "Let your hair down."
"I don't wear pyjamas unless I am sleeping." Mycroft replied stiffly, setting the now empty plate aside and clearing his throat a little. Let his hair down? Gregory obviously did not know him. The idea of it all! He was indignant at first, but then he mellowed down a bit. Of course Gregory didn't know him. No one knew Mycroft, and that was all his doing. He never wanted people to get close enough where he felt comfortable enough to "let his hair down", because once he did something bad always happened. "This is me relaxed." He said after a little while, staring pointedly at the television.
"No..." Greg turned to face him, sighing. He could very well lose his badge for this, and possibly a hell of a lot more. He didn't even know why it bothered him so, but the slight buzz from two consecutive beers emboldened him, and damn it, there had to be more to Mycroft Holmes than this... this Ice Man! With steady, warm fingers, Greg unbuttoned the first three buttons on the man's shirt, digging beneath the dressing gown to loosen the collar, and he lifted one eyebrow, glancing down. "Don't shoot me, okay?" he grumbled, a twinkle in his dark eyes. "I'm not copping a feel." With the warning in place, Greg's hands fell to the expensive Italian leather belt, and he loosened it as well, thumbing it open, catching Mycroft's round turquoise eyes and winking. "There," he said with a smile, leaning back on the pillows. "Now you're relaxed. Well. More relaxed anyway." He plucked a grape from a bowl of fruit, turning his attention back to the movie.
If anything that had made Mycroft one million times more uncomfortable. The close proximity to Gregory had been unnerving, startling, arousing, and unwanted. Why the hell had he done that? He could have just told Mycroft to unbutton a few buttons and remove the belt. Why did he have to enter into his personal space? And why, oh why, did he have to do it in such an intimate fashion? "I don't see what difference this makes." He muttered, his hands plucking at the linen trousers. A flush had risen to Mycroft's cheeks and he suddenly felt a strong urge to go back into his room and huddle under the blankets. No one had gotten under his skin like this in a very, very long time and Mycroft did not know how to take it.
They sat in silence for a long time, watching the movie, not speaking. The food disappeared, mostly down Greg's throat, and when the movie was over, his fingers brushed the table, reaching for a beer once more. They came up empty. He stared in confusion, blinking sleepily at the space where the cans had been, then he turned to Mycroft with a low growl. "Thought... you ordered six," he slurred, and yawned. Mycroft was gazing at the credits as they rolled, his proud face blank and pale in the dim light. Greg reached for the remote control, but his head reeled a little, and Mycroft held it out of his reach. He scowled. "Give it."
Mycroft wrinkled his nose and handed the remote to the other man. After all, there was no use arguing with a drunk. He folded his hands primly in his lap, waiting for Gregory to give a hint that he should leave. This whole encounter was completely out of the ordinary for Mycroft, especially the way Gregory was acting. Why did he care so much? Mycroft wasn't his friend. Hell, they weren't even close. So why bother? They could just travel this journey in silence and end it the same as they'd began it. "You're inebriated. You should go to sleep." Mycroft glanced to the door longingly and shifted about.
"Can't sleep." Greg turned over, lying on his side facing Mycroft, fumbling with the buttons on the telly and getting more and more frustrated. "Every station... fuckin' Italian.." He made an exasperated noise, and turned it off at last, throwing the remote on the carpet. Mycroft made a slight coughing noise, and Greg sighed. "Fine. Go. You want to go, I can see that. Fucking fine." He punched his pillow a little, grumbling sadly to himself. It was going to be a bad night, he could already tell. Bloody insomnia. He lay on his stomach, staring at the headboard, his brow drawn.
Mycroft did not move. His brain snapped at his body to do so, but he couldn't. He wouldn't. "What is your favourite colour?" He asked suddenly, staring at his hands. "I was guessing yellow, but now I am not entirely sure." The posh man turned around and looked at the detective inspector. He couldn't leave him like this. Not when he looked so dejected and upset. It wasn't right. Because after all, Gregory HAD come with him as a favour. He should return the favour. And that was absolutely the only reason why he was staying.
Greg lifted his chin a little, and rotated his head very slowly to gaze up at his companion. "Brown," he said softly, eyes wide in disbelief. It was a small gesture, a kind one, one that was not lost on Greg. Logically, Mycroft should get up and go to bed, and snap at Lestrade to do the same. Hell. He probably should have drugged him. But instead... he was making conversation. Or attempting to anyway. "I like brown," he repeated, a tiny smile in the corners of his mouth. "It's underrated, and soothing. Figure... Mother Nature put enough of it around. Must be good for something."
Mycroft nodded, clambering up onto the bed and leaning against the headboard, propping his knees up a little and resting his elbows on them. "Brown is a good colour. It's very calming. Suits you." With some slight shifting to get comfortable, the man pushed a pillow to support his lower back and gazed down at his long fingers. "I knew I was wrong. It's not often that I am wrong. Congratulations." He smiled wryly at the silver haired man and steepled his fingers together. "And your favourite genre of music?"
"Jazz, but you knew that." Greg pushed up on his elbows, genuinely smiling now. He cocked his head, laughing a little at the man next to him. "Is this payback for my interrogation in the car?"
Mycroft nodded, his smile turning into a genuine one. "And your favourite movie?" He loosened the belt on his dressing gown and let his hands fall to his sides, only a few short inches from Gregory's body. So close he could feel the heat radiating from him.
"I suppose..." Greg thought a moment, flipping to lie on his back, his head still turned to Mycroft. He mused a few seconds, and his mouth twitched as he closed one eye, surveying the man above. "Do you want the answer I always give to that question, or the real answer?"
"I would think the answer to that question obvious. I want to hear the real answer. Common courtesy." Mycroft's fingers itched to reach forward and brush the hair from Gregory's forehead. "I could have told you my favourite movie was... Citizen Kane, but I did not." Mycroft smiled down at Gregory and nudged his arm with a middle finger, a barely there touch.
Greg felt the brush of the fingertip, and to his utter shock, gooseflesh sprang out on his arms and legs. He flushed, licking his lips, hoping Mycroft didn't notice, and he answered quickly so as to distract him. At least the only light in the room was a silver glow from the city lights streaming in through the darkened window. "I usually tell people that my favourite movie is Dirty Harry. But it's not. My favourite movie..." He grinned through the shadows up at Mycroft, and sat up quickly, cross legged on the bed, close to him. "You won't tell a soul." It was not a question. Greg knew Mycroft wouldn't tell a soul. Mycroft didn't have anyone to tell. "It's The King and I." White teeth flashed in the moonlight.
Mycroft looked down at him and then a broad smile broke out on his lips. "You mean the one with Deborah Kerr and Yul Brynner?" He laughed a deep laugh that started in his belly and worked its way from his throat with a rich, full sound. "The one where she sings that whistle song? Ahhhh, I haven't seen that film in... years. It was so... inaccurate. It makes me smile. Especially Yul Brynner's character." Running a hand through his hair, Mycroft sighed and stared at the vacant telly screen. "That is a surprising answer." He said finally, closing his eyes.
"Yeah, I am full of surprises." Greg laughed too, but his eyes stayed trained on Mycroft. The alcohol in his system was working strangely. In the soft light of the city and the moon, Mycroft Holmes looked... looked...
ethereal.
His mind supplied the word, and Greg was rather taken aback by it. It was true, he supposed. There was a golden halo on the wispy hair atop his head, and the noble profile was silvered, softened, as if someone had gentled his features with a paintbrush. Gone were the lines of worry and care... in their place, a handsome, almost angelic creature sat beside him, relaxed and comfortable at last. Greg studied him closely, his smile fading a little in wonder. "So are you, Mycroft," he said quietly.
Mycroft chuckled and shook his head. "I'm not full of surprises. You just have to know where to look." The elder Holmes brother rested his head on a shoulder and let his legs stretch out in front of him, staring at his naked toes as he wiggled them out in front of him. "When did you begin to have insomnia?" He asked suddenly, glancing over at the staring man. "It is a horrible affliction." He gave Lestrade a sympathetic look and rubbed his legs, yawning a little.
"When Deborah left me." Greg shrugged his shoulders, then frowned, shifting back so that he was sitting next to Mycroft, his back against the headboard, their arms brushing. "I guess, no, that's not true. It was before then. First I started sleeping on the sofa, and she started sleeping with the gym coach, and then I just... stopped sleeping." He looked over at his companion, smiling in resignation. "I was broken up at first, but it had been over for a long time. Just didn't want to let go. Not because of her, so much, I just... hated the idea of sleeping all alone in a flat and a bed and being alone again."
Mycroft nodded knowingly. "Sleeping alone is... well, it's not a pleasant thing. An empty bed is lonely." He rubbed his hand together and leaned his chin on his chest. "I suppose that's part of the reason why I am almost never at my home. It is always empty. Always echoing back at me." He laughed hollowly and stole another glance at his companion, holding his breath. Gregory's face was saddened and lines had appeared on his face. "I know the feeling."
Greg nodded, biting his lip and hiccuping a little. He was tired. He was so, so tired, and so, so sad. Mycroft... was far more human than he'd ever anticipated. It was humbling, and a little disconcerting. "Bed," he mumbled, pulling the blankets back and scuttling into their warmth. The sheets were heavenly, so soft, so inviting against his naked flesh.
Mycroft nodded. "Yes. Goodnight Gregory." He slid off the bed and stuffed his feet back into the slippers, retying the belt around his robe and picking up his other belt. "Sleep well." He waved a little and shuffled to the door.
"Wait." Greg sat up a little, opening and closing his mouth a few times as Mycroft hesitated by the doors that joined their bedrooms. Once more, he wondered at the strength of the beers he'd just consumed as the words came stumbling from his lips, halted and awkward. "You can stay. If you want."
"S..stay?" Mycroft squeaked, clutching at his robe even tighter. "Wh…" he began, an acerbic response to the obviously asinine and most likely teasing question on the tip of his tongue, just waiting for his lips to wrap themselves around the words. But at the hopeful, almost frightened look on Gregory's face, he suddenly felt compelled to stay. "I, ah, I suppose." He returned to the bed and hesitantly sat back down, removing the slippers and robe. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? This was the exact OPPOSITE of staying away from Gregory Lestrade! With a little trepidation, Mycroft lifted the covers up and slipped under them, pulling them up to his chin. "The light is on your side." He mumbled, his cheeks heating up. Trying to remember why the hell he had agreed to stay, Mycroft turned on his side, trying to hide the flush on his cheeks. "Goodnight, Gregory." He murmured quietly.
"Goodnight." Greg sank into the blankets, lying on his back with an arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Mycroft's body heat was so comforting, so familiar. It had been ages since he'd slept in the same bed with another person, and Greg fought the urge to curl up against him, pull him closer, just to FEEL. To feel the rise and fall of breath against his stomach and chest. To feel the wisp of hair tickling his nostrils as he drifted to sleep. To feel the gentle nudge of a warm thigh, naked against his own... He swallowed, and turned his back to the other man, his chest constricting. Maybe... it was time to start dating again. Maybe he should call Molly. When one started wishing Mycroft Holmes wasn't wearing trousers... it was time to start dating.
Sleep didn't find Mycroft for a long time. He stayed awake, staring at the opposite wall, listening to Gregory inhale and exhale. He felt the heat rolling off the detective inspector's body and fought the urge to shift closer to him, to rest his head on the same pillow, nestling in the hollow of his neck. He fought it all, clenching and unclenching his fist. Yes. He was working too hard. That was it. Surely. He was having some sort of break down. What he needed was to lie on a beach somewhere, possibly find someone to shag. Because clearly he'd been without it for far too long. Far too long.
Thank you all so much for reading! We look forward to see how everyone reacts to this chapter. We had so much fun writing it. I swear, Mystrade is every bit as fun as Johnlock, even if it isn't half as kinky (for us).