A/N: Yay! Chapter 9. I told you, you wouldn't have long to wait for your cliffhanger resolution. These next two chapters aren't up to my usual snuff because I just wanted to get them done and out for you people to read. I feel like I've been dragging the story out for too long.
Thanks ever be to the lovely and patient old ping hai, who typed up this chapter, beta'ed it, and made sure it made sense for you lovely people.
Mycroft couldn't believe what he was hearing. His jaw dropped, and his throat moved but no sound emerged.
"I mean, if you'd rather—" Greg started.
"Yes!" Mycroft nearly shouted the word. "Yes," he said softer. "I'd love to be your date tonight."
"Great. Fantastic. I'll pick you up at 6. Concert's at 7. We'll go for drinks afterward."
"I'll look forward to it," Mycroft said.
Greg smiled and walked away to hail a taxi.
The politician stood there with a silly grin on his face while Liya was messaging furiously the other members of Operation: Mystrade. It was only a date and a date did not a relationship make, after all. They still had to keep pressing them together. Boys are notoriously stubborn.
She looked up to see that Mycroft's grin had fallen away, leaving a look of abject terror in its place.
"Mycroft?" Liya asked, so concerned she didn't even use his pet name.
"It's been years since I've been on a date. I don't know what to do, what to say, what to wear. It's hopeless!"
"It'll be all right," she assured him.
She sent out a quick message to Mycroft's PA and to Sherlock: Meet us at My's place. He needs help with his date tonight—LM
Liya then turned to the curb and whistled sharp and loud, and a taxi immediately appeared.
She put Mycroft into the cab first before she got in herself.
"It'll be okay, My," she promised. She placed a hand on his knee. Mycroft didn't have much hope. How could he do this? He couldn't. He wouldn't. He pulled out his phone and it was immediately snatched away.
"You are going on this date, Mycroft Edmond Holmes. And he will love it. Trust me." The politician sighed. He had never wanted to impress anyone this much since he met the Queen. And she was a cake walk in comparison.
When they arrived at the house, they could make out the sounds of arguing coming from the bedroom. As they neared, they could hear Mycroft's PA say, "No, no, no. The pale blue would look better."
"God, no!" Sherlock groaned. "The pale blue washes him out entirely. The tan one. Brings warmth to his cheeks."
"Argh. It's too yellow! He'll look sick."
"No, he won't," Sherlock shot back.
Mycroft entered the room and groaned. His PA and Sherlock had torn apart his closet, and clothes were strung about the room.
"Don't worry," Sherlock said, looking up when they walked in. "I memorized where everything goes. It'll be put back where it belongs after we're done."
Mycroft was so overcome with relief that he sagged against the doorframe. Sherlock was as particular as he was when it came to how his clothes were arranged, and this insured that he would do as he promised.
Sherlock grinned, he pulled his brother away from the door and into the room.
Mycroft wasn't sure how many outfits he tried on before all three agreed. He wore a tweed jacket with a bright white shirt and dove grey slacks.
"This is ridiculous," Mycroft huffed. "Why am I worrying about this? It doesn't matter what I wear, I'll look dreadful."
The ladies protested. Sherlock pushed them out the door and slammed it behind them.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. The younger Holmes pushed him to sit on the bed.
"I am only going to say this once," Sherlock growled. "And if you tell anyone I said this, I will post those pictures of you in the little boy shorts when you were ten."
Mycroft gulped and nodded.
"You look fine. There is nothing wrong with your weight. You are as addicted to sweets and exercise as I am to danger and cocaine. I tease you, but that's all it is. You aren't fat. In fact, you're almost too thin. Our weight has always been an issue. You tending toward too much and me, too little. But I'm getting better at it. You can, too. What are you, fourteen stone?"
Mycroft nodded again.
"Any less than that and it'd be unhealthy. Honestly, you look great, Mycroft."
Mycroft blushed.
"Gregory said I shouldn't compare myself to you," he admitted.
"He's right. First off, we have different builds, different metabolisms and lifestyles. Does this mean you should stop working out and eating right? No, of course not. But this obsession with your waistline isn't right."
"It'll take some time," Mycroft said as he choked back tears.
"I know, but you have people to help." Sherlock put his hand on his brother's shoulder. He gave a brief squeeze before letting go.
"Thank you," the older Holmes whispered.
Sherlock stepped back to allow Mycroft to stand and then called out, "All right, you can stop eavesdropping now."
Liya swore and pushed the door the rest of the way open. She saw both brothers standing side by side, looking bemused at her blatant attempt to spy.
"Can't fault a girl for trying," she said, coming into the room.
Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. "You'll do fine. Besides, it's obvious he fancies your arse." He started putting away the clothes they had pulled out of the closet, ignoring the stunned looks from Mycroft and Liya.
Liya was shocked Sherlock even knew how to put away clothes. While Mycroft was shocked his brother even knew the word 'arse.' He blamed John for his brother's new-found vulgarity.
Mycroft smirked at Liya's expression. "Have you ever seen clothes strewn about Baker Street?"
She thought about it and then shook her head.
"My things require delicate care. My bedroom is spotless as well," Sherlock said, as he began to put things back meticulously.
Liya looked at her watch. "It's about time."
Mycroft nodded and went to go sit in the living room to await Greg's arrival.
He had just poured himself a drink when the doorbell rang. His PA showed Greg to where Mycroft was waiting.
Greg was in Mycroft's favorite suit of his with a blue-grey button-up, the top two undone.
Mycroft gulped.
"Would you care for a drink before we go?" he asked, holding up his half-finished glass.
"Sure, I'll have what you're having," Greg said as he made his way further into the room. Mycroft made up Greg a drink and handed it to him.
"This is really good," Greg said appreciatively, after he took a sip.
"Thank you," Mycroft replied.
They finished their drinks in comfortable silence and left.
As they walked to the car, the Inspector put a possessive hand on the politician's lower back.
Mycroft relished in its warmth.
Greg opened the door for Mycroft, and he slid into the front seat. Greg got in on the other side and they drove off.
"I saw a car out front. Was that your PA's?" he asked after a minute or two of silence.
Mycroft blushed and nodded. "I don't do casual very well and Liya brought in Andraya, my PA," he clarified, when Greg gave him a questioning look at the strange name, "and Sherlock to help pick out something for tonight."
"Okay, I get Liya and your PA helping, but how does Sherlock fit into all this?"
"My brother is the master of disguise. He can dress to fit in anywhere. Plus," Mycroft blushed, "that day at the crime scene when you liked the suit I was wearing. It was his suggestion."
Greg raised his eyebrows. "Oh." Props to the younger Holmes, then, Greg thought.
"Indeed."
They spent the rest of the drive in silence.
They pulled up to the venue and got out. They walked up to Will Call and Mycroft pulled out his ID as he told the teller his name.
"Right, here you go," she said, handing Mycroft two tickets. "Enjoy the show."
"We will, thank you," Mycroft replied.
Halfway during the concert, Greg brushed his hand against Mycroft's and the politician responded by taking the Inspector's hand. They smiled at each other and then turned back to the concert.
As they walked back to the car, Mycroft was happily chatting about the cellist.
"He was amazing," the politician gushed. "All those sounds just with him and his cello. It was incredible. Thank you so much for taking me."
"I'm glad John had the tickets to give."
They stopped and suddenly Greg was aware of how close they were standing. He looked up just as Mycroft looked down. Their faces were now a hair's breadth away. Mycroft gasped as the silver-haired man closed the distance. Instantly Mycroft's hands went to Greg's shoulders. The kiss was soft and sweet, and it made Greg's head swim. He placed his hands on Mycroft's waist to steady himself. He was sure that if he hadn't, his knees would have gone out.
When they finally pulled apart, they were breathless. "Gregory," Mycroft panted, "Gregory."
"Mycroft," Greg breathed in reply.
"What's next?" the politician asked, as he fought to get his heart back into his chest.
"Well, we're going back to my place, I'm going to pop dinner into the oven and while it cooks, you and I will have a nice bottle of wine while we cozy up on the couch. And then after dinner, we'll go from there," Greg said.
Mycroft chuckled. "Sounds lovely. But I meant for us."
Greg's heart stopped.
"Be mine, Mycroft." Greg's hand came up to Mycroft's cheek. The politician leaned into his touch like a cat half-starved for attention.
"For as long as you'll have me," he sighed.
Greg kissed him.
"Forever," he promised.
