A/N: This is a long chapter, but there wasn't really a good place for a break. Enjoy~

Mycroft didn't know how long it was before he pulled back. What should he do next? What was expected of him? Was asking Greg to stay overstepping boundaries? Did he want Greg to stay? His mind whirled with questions that he didn't know the answer to. He didn't look up at Greg, he couldn't face him. Part of him was scared to see what would be on Greg's face.

"Do you want me to stay?" Greg moved back, taking the chair closest to Mycroft. "It's okay if you don't know," he added when Mycroft tensed. Mycroft was silent for a few moments, and he glanced up to see Greg's smile. "Do you want to get dinner on Wednesday?"

Mycroft stared at Greg, startled. The bruises and his damaged coccyx was starting to catch up with him and he felt sore and achy all over now that the adrenaline from their conversation was fading. "Dinner?"

"A date," Greg clarified. "A dinner date."

"A date," Mycroft repeated.

"Yes." Greg looked hopeful. "A second date."

"I - I would have to check my diary," Mycroft said, watching Greg's face.

Greg smiled, standing. "Call me when you know?" He leaned forward, telegraphing his movements, and kissed Mycroft briefly on the lips and then the forehead. "I'm going to go. You need some time to think, and I don't want to get in your way."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, and stopped. Did he want to protest? A warm hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed gently, careful not to aggravate Mycroft's sore body. Mycroft glanced down at Greg's hand and then back up at his face. He hadn't even flinched. That startled him. "I shall call as soon as I am able," Mycroft promised.

Greg's thumb stroked his shoulder, comforting, and Mycroft leaned into the touch without meaning to. "You can call me if you want to talk, too," he told Mycroft.

Mycroft didn't want him to go. Not yet. What if he didn't come back? Certainly the world would consent and allow him a few more minutes. "Would you like to have dinner here, tomorrow night?" he said suddenly.

Greg looked at him, surprised. "Are you sure?"

Mycroft looked away as hastily as his sore neck would allow, embarrassed. "If it is an inconvenient time, you do not have to -" He was cut off by Greg's lips against his, soft and gentle.

"I'd love to," Greg said with a smile. "Tomorrow at seven?"

"Yes." Mycroft turned slightly as Greg let go of his shoulder.

"I'm available by phone," Greg reminded him, his expression serious and warm at the same time. Mycroft nodded, a small incline of his head, and Greg smiled. "Tomorrow at seven it is." He turned around and left, casting one last glance over his shoulder at Mycroft behind him.

Mycroft watched him go, hoping desperately that it would not be the last time he saw Greg. He couldn't explain when Greg had become so important to him, he just knew that he was. Glancing at the clock, Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck absently. He wasn't supposed to work, but the alternative was staying at home and thinking and that was about as much fun as acupuncture.

There was something deliciously decadent about the idea of reading high-class, important government documents when clad in jeans and a ragged t-shirt. Maybe he would even make a conference call. The thought left him feeling oddly buoyant as he strode into his home office. He kept a laptop there so that he could work from home if necessary (and it was nearly always necessary). Deftly he navigated through the multiple levels of security necessary to ensconce himself in his office with an appropriate workspace. He understood why the security was the way it was, but it was quite troublesome at times.

Connecting the laptop to another external monitor, he pulled up a few of the CCTV feeds on the larger screen. "Checking on Sherlock," he told the empty room. As if it mattered when there was no one there to hear his empty excuses. The cameras showed Sherlock in 221B, sitting at the table with a microscope and a container of - ugh - eyeballs. Mycroft wrinkled his nose and switched to the view of the street outside 221B.

He glanced around his office just to make sure that no one else was around before he opened the multiple feeds which could hold Greg's image. Greg hadn't said where he was going after leaving Mycroft's, but Mycroft knew it was likely going to be the Yard or his flat. He was dependable, even predictable that way. Mycroft rather liked it. Scanning the screens he was able to catch Greg on the way inside the Yard. Work, then. A faint smile crossed Mycroft's lips. How fitting for his Second to be someone as obsessed with work as he was.

Mycroft couldn't say exactly why he left the Yard's camera feeds up on his monitor for the many hours he worked that day. He could look up at the screen and see Greg hard at work, whether it was dutifully filling out paperwork or fetching coffee . Once Mycroft followed him via CCTV to a crime scene. It made him feel less alone, knowing that Greg was still out there and hadn't fled the country.

Not that Greg wouldn't have multiple opportunities to do so before dinner the next day. Mycroft was going to be sure of that. The DI's workload would be properly managed in order to allow him time to leave either the city or the country in case he wished to decrease the chance of ever encountering Mycroft again.

Deviating from his work responsibilities, Mycroft browsed the internet for a simple, filling recipe that he could prepare for their dinner tomorrow. Anthea had already left him several particularly useful bookmarks, but he wanted to see what else was available. He wasn't particularly fond of cooking extravagant meals - he much preferred simple fare - but part of him wanted to cook something nice for their second official date.

Date.

The word scared him as much as it filled him with a prickly, nervous type of excitement. He didn't have much experience with dating - Jack had simply moved in with them, and that was that. There hadn't been much romance, not even in those glorious, golden months. Not that Mycroft had even thought about it, not back then. Sherlock had been more important, and in all honesty Mycroft had been so caught up in just living with someone who had been so perfect. He touched his lips, remembering.

The way Jack had held him, kissed him, laid with him. All of that was gone, and it would never come back. Mycroft closed his eyes. It wasn't entirely bad, he thought. There had been the good, too. He tried to imagine Jack laying next to him, holding him, and frowned. It wasn't Jack's slender body next to him in his mind, nor his light blonde hair tousled with sleep.

It was a sturdier, stockier man, with silver hair and warm brown eyes. It was his strong arms around Mycroft, holding him close. His lips on Mycroft's temple as they cuddled drowsily, trying to snag those last five minutes of sleep before they had to get up. Mycroft's eyes flew open and he gripped the desk uncomfortably tight. His knuckles were white, his sore muscles screaming in pain until he finally let go. No.

It wasn't Jack that Mycroft thought of when he wanted comfort, when he wanted to remember something good. It was Greg. The way Greg held him when they were sitting in the kitchen that morning. The way he smiled at Mycroft when he thought Mycroft wouldn't notice. The way he was always so careful, so gentle, handling Mycroft as if he would break - which was a ludicrous thought.

Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably. Thinking about it, what it meant, would require using words that he didn't want to. Emotions and feelings that he desperately wanted to keep bottled up, no matter how much they fought to escape. Maybe it is time, a treacherous part of his brain pointed out. It had been many years since Jack. It was time to move on. "Maybe," Mycroft muttered to himself, shoving all thoughts of Greg out of his mind. He could worry about that tomorrow.

For now, he had work to do.

Anthea gave him a dirty look when she picked him up the next day. "You were supposed to take the day off," she informed him.

"I did," Mycroft said absently, watching the familiar scenery pass by. "Also, shall we not make stealing all my liquor a habit?" He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, surprised to see a blithe smile instead of any sort of shame. She normally at least pretended to apologize.

"Working nine hours from home is not taking a day off." She raised her eyebrows as if to invite any more stupid excuses.

He ignored her. "I shall be leaving the office at 3pm today." Anthea looked at him, more interested now. "I have invited the DI over for a friendly dinner."

"I shall take that into consideration, Sir." Her expression betrayed the fact that she didn't believe a word he said. Mycroft gave her a disapproving scowl (she smirked) and proceeded to spend the rest of the car trip shuffling papers around. "You have a meeting with the Prime Minister at 9, the Russian Delegation at 11, and finally, the German Ambassador at 12," she said, scrolling down her phone's screen.

"I finished the majority of the paperwork yesterday, so aside from the meetings and any potential debriefings…"

"You should be able to leave on time, yes." Anthea smiled. It was the sort of smile that unnerved Mycroft a bit. It was a smile that said that there would be things happening to get him out on time that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know about. Anthea was a strong companion to have in one's corner, but she also presented a formidable foe to anyone who opposed her.

Mycroft studiously ignored her as they stepped out of the car and headed into the office building. It was only on his floor that he stopped, reaching out to place his hand on her arm. She looked at him, curious. "Thank you," he said softly. It was rare for him to show that sort of sentiment, to acknowledge anything of the sort, but he felt it was her due for going so far out of the way to ensure that he would be able to shirk his duties to fulfill social obligations.

"Anytime," she said with a wide grin. Mycroft turned and headed for his office, ready to do everything that needed to be done. Although he doubted that Greg was going to show up - surely the DI had come to his senses - it was only polite to be prepared on the off chance he decided he had nothing better to do. Pushing that thought out of his mind, Mycroft got to work. He wouldn't be able to find out if he wasn't home.

Mycroft slid dinner into the oven, carefully ensuring that it was properly centered. He glanced up at Anthea who was leaning against the counter. "Forty five minutes?" she asked.

"Rotate it at each fifteen," he confirmed.

"Will do." She smiled at him and Mycroft felt the knot in his stomach relax slightly. He had been a nervous wreck since he left work at three. Anthea had taken one look at him and called the car, accompanying him on the way home without another word. She had helped him prepare the dinner, arrange the kitchen, and clean his home for the first time in far too long. He really needed to hire a maid service, but the thought of letting someone else in his home when he might not be there sent shivers up and down his spine. "Go change." She flicked a hand at him, shooing him away.

Mycroft gave her a disapproving stare before turning and heading upstairs. She had volunteered to supervise the baking chicken while he changed into something more appropriate. He had spent a significant part of his distracted time after work dithering over his clothes. Anthea had rolled her eyes and ended up pointing to one of his more casual suits, informing him that that would be his attire for his date that night.

She had gotten so sassy lately, Mycroft thought. But he trusted her opinion and quietly changed into the suit she had suggested. It was a nice colour, a slate grey pinstripe, with a dark gray vest underneath and a red tie. His stomach fluttered uncomfortably as he glanced in the mirror to ensure that he looked suitable. He wasn't quite sure why he was going to a significant level of effort when he doubted that Greg was going to show up.

Mycroft had spent most of his day purposefully avoiding the CCTV cameras, instructing Anthea to monitor them in his stead. He had received the usual reports on Sherlock's behavior (getting into trouble, egged on by John Watson) but had told her to put DI Lestrade's reports in writing and to file them away for later. They were to be perused at a less painful time, once Mycroft had gotten over his flight of folly and accepted that Greg was out of his life.

He glanced at the clock. It was approximately six fifty. Ten more minutes. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and headed downstairs. Anthea was still standing in the same place, flicking through her phone with one hand. She glanced up when she heard him enter the kitchen and gave him a critical glance. "Lose the jacket," was the first thing she said. "Roll up your sleeves to your elbows. Lose the tie."

"I don't see why -" he started.

"It's more relaxed," she explained, pocketing her mobile. "It's a casually cut suit, but this is a date, not a business meeting."

Mycroft plucked at his sleeve for a moment, debating, and then gingerly unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off. He stared at Anthea challengingly. What did he do with it? It was an imbecilic question, Mycroft knew, but for some reason he couldn't focus, couldn't think. His chest felt tight, and even breathing was difficult. "Pick a chair, any chair." She looked pointedly at the multiple chairs in the kitchen. "Or you can put it in the closet."

Carefully Mycroft settled the jacket over the back of a chair. Next he took out his cufflinks, placing them in one of the jacket pockets. His tie was next; this he did place in the closet, hanging it up so that it wouldn't get wrinkled. Mycroft frowned at his shirt sleeves and then dutifully rolled them up. Anthea appeared next to him, tugging and fussing with the cuffs until they looked neat. He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. "Might as well do it right. Sir." She smiled blithely and then stepped back, looking him up and down. "Perfect."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened the refrigerator in order to check on tiramisu he had made for pudding. He glanced at the clock. Five minutes. He felt sick to his stomach, like he was going to throw up. Scowling at the wall, he shoved down the nerves. "It's okay to be nervous, sir," Anthea said, her attention back on her mobile.

"I'm not nervous," Mycroft said, too quickly to be anything but a blatant denial. She looked up from her phone, studying him for a few moments, and offered him a faint smile.

"He'll be here," she said, her voice unusually kind. Silence spooled out between them. Mycroft could feel her eyes on him, seemingly nonchalant, but when he glanced at her he could see concern lurking in her expression. It felt like his stomach was tied in knots, like he could barely breathe. He couldn't even smile. He was waiting for the ball to drop, for reality to hit and Greg not show up. The clock continued ticking and it moved closer and closer to seven pm. It was time to rotate the chicken, Mycroft realized. He donned the oven gloves and carefully rotated the pan, ensuring that it would cook evenly.

Mutely he pulled the gloves off and sat them to the side. Six fifty nine. Tick, tock. Mycroft couldn't breathe. Anthea had abandoned all pretense of using her phone and was watching him intently. He was staring at something, he supposed, but he saw nothing. It felt like he was sinking, drowning, with nothing to hold him afloat.

At exactly seven pm, the doorbell rang. Anthea's eyes flickered to him and then towards the door. "It must be a delivery," Mycroft muttered, striding towards the door. He was grateful when Anthea didn't say anything, allowing him to preserve what fragile hope he had. It couldn't be Greg at the door, it simply couldn't be, but Mycroft could not deny exactly how much he wanted it to be.

He opened the door to see Greg standing there, a bottle of wine in his hands. "Hello," Greg said, meeting Mycroft's eyes with a shy smile. He was dressed simply, in a nice pair of slacks and a button-down. It was oddly reminiscent of their first evening out, a meeting to discuss Sherlock and indirectly his future. Mycroft swallowed, staring at Greg with startled eyes. He had come. He hadn't left. Greg glanced from Mycroft to someone behind him, presumably Anthea. "May I come in?" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "If you're working, I could come back in a bit-" he started.

"No, not at all. Please, do enter." Anthea gently tugged on Mycroft's elbow, startling him. He came back to Earth, inclining his torso in a slight bow as Greg entered. Anthea carefully took the wine out of Greg's hands, examining it intently. "Non-alcoholic," she said, shooting a questioning look at the DI. Mycroft glanced between the two.

"I prefer to not drink alcohol," Greg said with a shrug. "It's not the greatest, but it's not bad, either."

Mycroft eyed the bottle as if it was something distasteful. Anthea caught his eye and frowned. "Thank you," Mycroft said smoothly, catching on.

"I'll be going." Anthea looked at Greg, and even Mycroft flinched. It was one of her scarier expressions, an I-could-kill-you-with-one-finger look that Mycroft had become uncomfortably familiar with during the time they were away. It turned out to be surprisingly useful when resolving political emergencies. "About ten minutes for the chicken, sir."

Mycroft nodded his thanks. Anthea gave him a warm smile, a genuine one, not the normally blithe, fake one she wore in front of other people. Then she was gone, closing the front door behind her. It was just him and Greg now, standing in the uncomfortable silence. The weight of their discussion the day before weighed heavily on Mycroft's shoulders. He hadn't expected Greg to show up. What did he do now that Greg had?

"Hello," Greg said again, watching Mycroft curiously. Mycroft self-consciously adjusted his cuffs, glancing at the oven to confirm the time left, then at the refrigerator to ensure that it had not spontaneously combusted. He would look at Greg, all in good time. "Come here, you," Greg murmured, stepping closer into Mycroft's space, careful to telegraph his movements in advance. He tugged Mycroft close enough so that he could press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

Mycroft blinked, and then kissed Greg back, a shiver of delight running down his spine. It had been a long time since he had kissed someone while sober. Greg allowed him two more kisses before he pulled back, moving so that his forehead bumped Mycroft's. He stared at Mycroft seriously, his brown eyes warm. "Did Anthea help you with dinner?" Greg asked.

Letting out a startled laugh, Mycroft straightened, breaking their eye contact. "Yes, she did."

Greg smiled. "She's a good cook." Mycroft glanced at him, surprised. "She was the one who brought the food yesterday," he explained. "Gave me some tips on what to make, what you might like." Greg shrugged, self-conscious.

"It was a good meal." Mycroft glanced at the clock, watching carefully so that he pulled the chicken and veg out when it was done. Only a few minutes left. Next was the two wine glasses. He poured the non-alcoholic wine into them, sniffing it and finding it not completely horrible. Those were placed onto the table, one at each place setting.

The chicken and veg was done, so Mycroft took it out, setting it on top of the stove to rest. He was aware of Greg's eyes on him. It both made him nervous and provided some amount of comfort. He closed his eyes briefly, his hands on the counter, and felt for the bond between them. It was there, tethering them together, and Mycroft drew comfort from its presence. "Did you have a good day at work?" Greg asked, startling Mycroft.

"Yes," Mycroft said, not turning to look at Greg. Instead he focused on slicing the chicken and transferring it and the veg to the plates. "And yourself?"

There was a pause, a startled one, before Greg spoke. "Er, it was normal, I guess. Sherlock nearly getting his arse kicked by my sergeant on a crime scene, John having to break up the fight before it escalated. Nothing new." He offered Mycroft a smile, inviting him to share the joke. Mycroft stared back, deciding that at least some part of the story was a fib. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" Mycroft asked stiffly.

"How my day went." Greg watched Mycroft finish the plates. "I thought you had all the cameras?"

"Utilizing them is a misappropriation of government resources," Mycroft started.

"That hasn't stopped you before." Greg studied Mycroft's face, his brow furrowed in concentration. Mycroft felt oddly naked. He wanted his sleeves rolled down, wanted his jacket back - all the shields he had meticulously constructed were no help when he was not properly equipped. "You didn't think I was coming, did you?"

Mycroft sat the plates down slightly harder than he should have, avoiding Greg's gaze. "Dinner is ready."

"Hey." Greg's words were a gentle chide. "Come here for a second."

Mycroft hesitated for a split second and then moved into Greg's personal space. "The food will get cold."

"Worst case I'm sure you have a splendid broiler to heat it back up," Greg said with a reassuring smile.

Mycroft bit back a laugh. Greg smiled. Carefully Greg took Mycroft's face in his hands and kissed him slowly and sweetly. Mycroft rested his hands on Greg's sides, his eyes closed as he kissed back. Kisses were okay, Mycroft decided. They were non-committal. Or something. "I'm here," Greg murmured against his lips. "I'm not leaving. So let's relax, yeah?"

"I am relaxed," Mycroft murmured back. Greg laughed and kissed him one last time. "I am," Mycroft said indignantly. He scowled for a moment, watching Greg smile and settle at the table. Then he took his place at the table opposite Greg.

"Sure," Greg teased. "So relaxed I'm afraid you might snap in two." His smile was sweet and Mycroft felt his muscles loosen just a bit. He was afraid that he might even come to enjoy their evening, at this rate.

The moment Mycroft had the first bite on his fork, held just in front of his mouth, his phone made a quiet noise. Mycroft frowned, placing the fork down on the plate, and glanced at Greg, who was looking at him curiously. Normally Mycroft wouldn't bother - anything important enough to interrupt his date and Anthea would come personally - but the noise signified it was she who had contacted him. "May I?" he asked Greg politely.

"Of course." Greg smiled, digging eagerly into his chicken. "This is delicious," he informed Mycroft.

Mycroft inclined his head slightly in thanks before pulling out his mobile, quickly flicking to the text she had sent. Sherlock has broken into DI's office to retrieve case file. A. Placing the mobile on the table, Mycroft rolled his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Of course Sherlock would notice that Greg was out of his office. "What's wrong?" Greg leaned forward, genuinely concerned.

"You would not have been holding a file hostage from Sherlock, would you?" Mycroft inquired, mildly exasperated.

"That bastard broke into my office, didn't he?" Greg placed his fork down and ran a hand through his hair.

"Quite possibly." Mycroft briefly contemplated telling Anthea to stop him, but decided against it. That would simply cause more chaos. Tucking his mobile away, he picked his fork up and placed the chicken in his mouth. Not bad, Mycroft thought. It was quite flavourful. He looked up to see Greg watching him, amused.

"It's good, isn't it?" he said conversationally, taking a sip of his wine between bites.

"The flavours present themselves quite nicely," Mycroft agreed. He eyed his wine glass. The whole point of wine was to be alcoholic; Mycroft didn't see how non-alcoholic wine was worthwhile in any way. Still, Greg had brought it, and it would not kill him to be polite. He had done far worse in the pursuit of politeness, anyway. Tentatively he lifted the wine glass to his lips and sipped it. It wasn't quite as bad as he had expected. Not like alcoholic wine, but not completely intolerant on its own.

"I try not to drink any more," Greg said when Mycroft looked at him.

"That includes a lack of any alcohol in your flat?" Mycroft inquired.

"Yes." Greg watched him for a moment, observing his reaction. Mycroft simply continued eating. It wasn't the end of the world, not really.

The room was quiet, with only the sounds of their eating breaking the near silence. Mycroft didn't know what to say. He could handle political emergencies, negotiate with terrorists, ambassadors, and various syndicates - but he could not converse utilizing simple topics over dinner. He sighed internally. "I presume you shall be relocating?" Mycroft inquired, looking up at Greg nonchalantly. It was protocol, after all.

Greg nearly choked on his chicken. Mycroft frowned slightly. That wasn't what he had expected. "What?"

"If the master bedroom is not to your liking, there are several guest rooms with various views that could be repurposed for mutual use," Mycroft continued.

"Wait. Wait wait wait." Greg held up a hand. "You're talking about me moving in with you?"

Mycroft sat his utensils down, about halfway through dinner. "Of course." He paused. "Is that a problem?"

"A bit." Greg eyed his non-alcoholic wine as if he wished it was the real thing and then drained the rest of it. "Right."

Mycroft felt like his stomach had twisted into knots, the food threatening to come back up. Had Greg simply come to - to end things? Did he not only have to stab Mycroft, but twist the knife? Mutely he drained his own glass, picking up the meal he could no longer finish and walking towards the sink. He felt like his heart had broken, like his world had shattered. Placing the plate by the sink, he nearly jumped when he felt arms wrap themselves loosely around him.

"Hey." Greg sounded worried. "You look like someone just died."

Someone did, Mycroft thought, the words cold and lonely in his mind. "Do forgive my presumptions." He moved out of Greg's grasp before turning and offering him a polite smile. "I shall not bother you in the future, with the exception of matters pertaining to Sherlock, and I am fairly certain Anthea can handle the majority of the issues as they should arrive-" Greg looked horrified. Mycroft wasn't sure what exactly to make of such an expression, so he simply stopped talking. Maybe Greg didn't want to hear any excuses, or maybe the thought of having to talk to Mycroft again down the road was simply too horrific to contemplate.

"Mycroft?" Greg frowned. "Are you kicking me out?"

Yes. "No, of course not," Mycroft said smoothly. "But I do have to say that I see little point in you remaining here if you are intending to sever the minor tie between us." He turned back towards the counter, fussed with something, anything. His hands were shaking. Distracting.

"What? When did I say that?" Mycroft wouldn't turn and look at him. He couldn't.

"When you mentioned that you do not wish to pursue a further relationship," Mycroft said. He picked up a salt shaker (an elegant one, a gift from his mother, paired with a pepper shaker) and moved it a few centimetres, and then moved it back.

"I - Mycroft." Greg sounded so plaintive, so heartfelt, that Mycroft almost turned at the sound of his voice. But he couldn't. If he did, he would be lost, and the hurt would break him. He couldn't take it, not again. "That's not what I meant."

"But it is what you said, is it not?" Mycroft inquired, his voice cold.

Greg sighed and somehow that hurt Mycroft even more. "You silly git."

Mycroft bristled, turning around to give Greg a piece of his mind. "I do not -"

"Mycroft." Greg looked at him, and something in his face made Mycroft stop mid-sentence. "Please, just listen to me."

Mycroft studied him for a few moments. "You have thirty seconds."

Greg smiled faintly, seemingly amused at Mycroft's threat. "Just because I don't want to move in with you doesn't mean I don't want to be with you."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Of course it does."

"It really doesn't. Mycroft, it's problematic because I want this to be our decision. I want this to be our relationship, based on our choices." Greg held his gaze, somehow. Mycroft wanted to look away, to run away, to be done with it all, but instead he stood there, rooted to the ground through the force of Greg's look ."Why do you want me to move in?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply and closed it. Why? "It's what is appropriate," he eventually settled on.

"It's what's expected, isn't that right?" Greg asked. Mycroft inclined his head slightly. That was true. It was how it had happened with Jack, how the books had said it - it was a happily ever after. That was simply how things were done. "Mycroft…" Greg struggled with what he wanted to say, how he wanted to say it. "When you ask me to move in, I want it to be because you want to. Not because society tells you you are obligated to want me with you."

"I want you to." Mycroft frowned.

"Do you?" Greg asked, his eyes kind. "Look. Jack - He was your only relationship, right?"

Mycroft's frown deepened. "I do not know what you are insinuating -" he started.

Greg ran a hand through his hair in what Mycroft presumed to be mild exasperation. "Nothing. It's an honest question."

Mycroft was able to look away. "Yes." And look how that turned out, he told himself. Maybe he should just give up now.

"I -" Greg struggled for words. "I know how your kind see me. I don't hide my neck, I dated, even slept around a bit in college. I got married, got a divorce, and then I found you. I've been around the block a few times, yeah?"

Mycroft took note of a few of the more interesting bits of information. He needed to find those potential paramours and have them deported. Immediately. "I would consider your experience more worldly than mine in this small matter."

Greg chuckled, then turned serious. "Look. I know even doing what we're doing now is a stretch for you. And that's okay. I don't want to put any more stress on you, not now." He smiled. "We've got these, yeah -" he touched the back of his neck - "But that doesn't make everything happen at once."

Mycroft stared at him, studying his face, his body, everything for even the smallest hint of a lie. He knew that he could call Anthea in and have her deal with the situation. He knew that if he told Greg to leave, Greg would leave without asking why. (Maybe. Mycroft wasn't as sure on that as he preferred to be.) But nothing he saw showed any sort of falsehood. His eyes went distant, his mind skimming through the file he had read on Greg so long ago.

He didn't want it to be true, not really. It meant giving up control, trusting someone else to lead what was - what could be, Mycroft corrected himself - an important part of his life. It was a commitment, a belief, a trust in another human being. He trusted Anthea, but that was trust based on years of close work. "Hey." Greg's voice pulled Mycroft out of his thoughts. "You don't have to trust me. Just - don't run?" He reached out, took one of Mycroft's hands in his, and squeezed it.

It was an oddly intimate gesture. Mycroft looked down at their joined hands and then back at Greg. "I am amenable to such a suggestion," he said, glancing away. There were emotions, feelings - things he could not handle, not now. Ruthlessly he shoved them away. "Regardless, I do believe I have sufficiently disrupted dinner." He had the sense to look mildly apologetic. Greg's plate was still half full.

"Remember that fantastic broiler of yours I mentioned?" Greg asked, squeezing Mycroft's hand. "I think it needs some use." Mycroft smiled at his conspiratorial tone. "Then, after dinner, we can watch a movie on the telly."

Jack curled up against him, Sherlock sitting on the floor, mostly asleep, as the movie flashed across the screen. "I think you'll like this one," Jack murmured, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's middle.

"I doubt that," Mycroft teased.

"Or not," Greg said, drawing Mycroft back to reality. Mycroft could feel how he had gone tense, and his hands trembled, just for a moment.

"No," Mycroft said, surprising himself. "I would like to." He felt dizzy, light-headed. His memories had not been that clear for a long time, not unless he was drunk.

Very carefully Greg drew Mycroft into a hug. Mycroft pressed his face into the crook of Greg's neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Greg was here, Mycroft told himself. It was Greg, not Jack. Time had moved forward, not backwards. "If you need to talk - about anything, mind you - let me know, yeah?" Mycroft hesitated. "It's important," Greg said softly.

A small nod was all that Mycroft could manage, but Greg broke out into a wide smile. "Excellent." They stood there, holding each other, for several long minutes, both reluctant to let go. Eventually Mycroft straightened, fussing with his cuffs as a pretense for avoiding eye contact. "Do you know how to work the broiler?" Greg asked.

Mycroft blinked. "It is not often that I am able to take advantage of the kitchen," he said.

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh. "Figures you'd have a kitchen this gorgeous and not use it," he teased.

Mycroft frowned and then relaxed slightly, realizing that Greg was not serious. "Maybe…" he trailed off, hesitating. "Maybe you could teach me."

Greg glanced at him, surprised, and then his face broke into a wide smile. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's lips. "I'd like that," Greg murmured.

Mycroft felt like he was flying and falling, all at the same time. "Me, too."