Sorry it took me so long to update. Had to finish the story commission from Rupert Graves' birthday auction first. The next chapter is well under way though.
That night was a little warmer but Greg had added an extra layer of clothes before he headed to Regents Park. He had taken a detour and climbed over the fence at a different spot to the night before and even inside the park he had stopped ever so often in particularly dark corners or between bushes to check if he had been followed. When he finally arrived at the boathouse, he could make out an Edwin-shaped form standing under the branches of a weeping-willow. Greg patted the pocket of his trousers in which Edwin's ring rested, securely wrapped in a handkerchief. He gave a low whistle and went to pick the lock of the boathouse door. Slipping inside he held the door open for Edwin and once the man had followed him inside, he closed it softly.
He had barely time to say hello, before he was engulfed in a hug. The slightly taller man held his policeman close and buried his nose in Greg's hair, relieved that he was unharmed. For the better part of a minute they stood in the dark and held each other tightly, listening to the other's breathing and heartbeat.
When Mycroft spoke, his lips were grazing Greg's cheek. "I was terribly worried. There has been a murder this morning. David Porter, a member of 'Earl's Backyard' has been killed. I was afraid it had been you," Mycroft confessed.
For an answer Greg ran his hands over Mycroft's back in soothing circles before he caressed the man's cheek and loosened the embrace.
"Let me light the candle," Greg whispered. He pulled the candle and matches from his pocket and just like the other night he placed the burning candle on the bow of one of the boats.
"There, better," Greg said and smiled softly. Placing two cushions right next to each other on the bench, they sat down. They sat close enough for their thighs and shoulders to touch right away, and Mycroft took the other man's hand, caressing the calloused palm that was so different from his own.
Greg leaned against Mycroft's body, enjoying the warmth he radiated. "So it wasn't just Sherlock and I who made the connection."
"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.
Greg nodded and summarized how he had almost caught the perpetrator, met Sherlock and about John Watson."
Mycroft, who listened attentively, was clearly taken aback when the policemen outlined how much information both Greg and Sherlock had entrusted the doctor with.
"And you are certain my brother and Doctor Watson aren't known to one another?"
"Sherlock said he deduced John Watson's name from the initials on the bag he carried and the doctor himself seemed to be as puzzled as most people are when they meet Sherlock. He was puzzled but also intrigued. Perhaps it was foolish to trust a stranger but there was an immediate connection between him and your brother."
Both men were clearly amazed because people who accepted the younger Holmes instead of being alienated, were exceptionally rare.
To proceed further, Greg reached into his pocket, removed the ring and put it in Mycroft's palm.
"Sherlock found it at the scene of crime. We believe that whoever killed David Porter had put it into his fist for the police to find."
Mycroft scrutinized the ring in the light of the candle. Although he had no doubts his brother had been right, he needed to see for himself that it was indeed his.
"Unfortunately I believe that our investigations are very much related to the murder of David Porter and whoever killed him had all intentions to frame you," Greg said.
For a long minute Mycroft furrowed his brow and thought about what he had just learned before he spoke. "I think it would be prudent if I refrain from wearing the ring until this case is closed and the true murderer has been found." Once again, wrapping the ring into the handkerchief, he placed it into his own pocket.
Feeling that the man next to him was more upset than he let on, Greg tugged him closer to his side. Eventually Mycroft turned his head, kissed the policeman's temple and cleared his throat.
"I wonder what it is you have found out that aggravated them enough to want you dead?"
"I honestly don't know. Right now I'm feeling I have accomplished nothing. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, poking around without even knowing what it is I'm searching for. The only real progress I ... well, Sherlock and I have made, was discovering who was most likely involved in the smuggling and the murders we talked about. It's only people's names and we can't even tie them to the crimes." He hung his head.
Mycroft pulled him a bit closer to his side. "Don't hide your light under a bushel, David. You are a very good policeman. Once we have found all the pieces of the puzzle, everything will fall into place."
The smile the compliment brought to the man's face, convinced Mycroft that he had said the right thing.
"I'm going to check my notes as soon as I get home to see if I have overlooked something. Unless ..." Greg froze for a moment.
Mycroft looked at him. "Unless what?"
Greg shook his head. "No, it's a stupid idea," he replied, avoiding the look from Mycroft's intense blue eyes. "Forget it."
"Let me hear it, David, and then we decide together whether it's a stupid idea or not."
"OK. What if it wasn't me but my colleagues who did something that was not related to the case but spooked our group of people? Like searching a place or arresting someone."
Mycroft rubbed his chin. "In my opinion that is very good thinking. Something that's not related at all to this case but it makes them think you discovered information that leads to one of their own."
"First thing tomorrow morning I'm going in to check if something relevant has occurred yesterday or the day before," Greg said, relieved Edwin didn't regard him as an idiot.
"It must have happened earlier than that," Mycroft mused. "Two days previously I was mugged and I'm fairly certain that whoever did it already had the intention to blame me for ... ah ... the crime."
Mycroft couldn't bring himself to say 'for your murder'. He hardly knew David, having seen him for the first time a mere week ago but already the thought of loosing him was crushing.
A tremor ran through Mycroft's body and he squirmed in his seat before he managed to compose himself and continue.
"Allow them at least a day to come up with the idea; I'd say you better check Friday or Saturday last week."
The awkward moment had passed and both men looked at each other, their eyes gleaming with excitement that perhaps they were about to achieve an essential breakthrough.
Snuggling closer they fell silent. Mycroft rested his cheek against Greg's head and made a content sound.
'I am very happy,' Greg realized. He knew it was more than a bit premature but he had a very good feeling about the direction his relationship with Edwin was taking.
They would have been content just to sit there but they knew they had work to do.
"I believe I've promised to tell you about my own investigations," Mycroft said eventually, breaking the silence.
Greg nodded.
"Last October I travelled to the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg where I discovered that the painting 'Penitent Magdalene' by Titan had been replaced with a forgery," Mycroft began. "I talked to the curator responsible for this painting. He told me that while the section of the museum had undergone restoration, the painting had been in storage over the course of a whole month. Nobody but me had noticed so far that a forgery was on display. Once I had explained how I had detected that the forgery instead of the original painting was on display, he beseeched me not to tell anyone. He said his life would be forfeited should anyone find out."
"Obviously it was an extremely good copy," Greg said.
"Forgery!" Mycroft couldn't help but correct him.
"Well, yes, forgery. Anyway, how did you recognise it wasn't the original painting?"
"I presume you have never seen the 'Penitent Magdalene'. She's crying in that painting and Titian caught her so masterfully you can't help but feel like crying yourself when you're facing the original painting. The fact that I wasn't affected by it like before made me look closer and I saw tiny mistakes the forger had made."
The policeman was clearly impressed. "So your powers of observations are as good as Sherlock's."
"Mine are better than Sherlock's," Mycroft replied automatically but although he had spoken the truth he couldn't help but feel like a bragger. To cover his embarrassment Mycroft continued. "The curator in Saint Petersburg told me that a friend who worked in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow suspected that a very famous Byzantine icon of the Virgin and Child on display in said gallery had been replaced with a forged icon. I confirmed his suspicion before I went to other museums and galleries in Italy, Spain, France and Germany. All together I have identified thirty-four forged masterpieces," Mycroft concluded.
"That is a lot!" Greg exclaimed. He tried to wrap his mind around the amount of planning and skill the group of forgers represented. The thoughts were so very mind-boggling that he almost didn't notice when Edwin took his hand and began caressing his fingers again.
"I wonder why more of the curators or other experts haven't recognised the forgeries."
Mycroft shrugged. "People see what they want to see and on top of that most people see but they don't observe."
"So," Greg asked, "how is it possible to distinct a forged painting from the original? Your employer was willing to take your word for it but if it goes to court a judge will ask for stronger evidence."
"Spoken like a true policeman," Mycroft said. "I'm convinced you're going to rise quickly through the ranks."
The policeman in question blushed slightly and lowered his gaze upon the praise, prompting Mycroft to rub his hand assuringly.
"But you are right, of course. I should begin to think about proving the forgery. The chemical composition of the paint that was used by the forgers would be a good place to start. For example, I seriously doubt they would use ultramarine with lazurite won from lapis lazuli."
"Lapis lazuli as in the gemstone?" Greg asked.
"Yes," Mycroft nodded. "The pigments of the ultramarine used by painters like Titian or Botticelli consisted of ground lapis lazuli. The pigment is still extremely expensive and the stones with the highest quality come from Afghanistan, a country we're currently barely on speaking terms with. The forgers most likely used the synthetic ultramarine. It is not only considerably cheaper but readily available for several decades now."
"Synthetic ultramarine?" Greg asked, sounding slightly distracted.
Mycroft launched into the explanation how synthetic ultramarine had been developed but quickly had an inkling he had lost his listener along the way.
"David, are you following me?" he asked.
"Uh, yes." Greg blinked a bit owlishly. "Although you are quite distracting, Edwin."
Mycroft followed the man's gaze and had to smile. Unwittingly he had kept playing with the man's hand and the way he just caressed the fingers appeared to distract him thoroughly. Caressing the skin between two fingers with a purposefully gentle stroke, he heard him gasp softly.
"You like that," he stated. "I didn't know that the side of your fingers were so receptive to touch."
"They haven't been before," Greg told him. "It is your touch that makes my skin receptive."
"Oh." Mycroft smiled softly and was clearly pleased by the explanation.
Greg cleared his throat, forcing himself to return to the initial subject. "If chemical components of the paint are evidence, I presume ultramarine made from lapis lazuli should be easy enough to distinguish from the synthetic version."
"Unfortunately not. I'm not a chemist but as far as I know the chemical formula of both substances is identical. I'm certain it is possible to make the distinction but I don't know how."
Greg was dumbstruck that Edwin didn't see the obvious. "Then why don't you ask your brother?"
Mycroft blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sherlock is a brilliant chemist. Either he knows how to make the distinction or he should be able to find out."
Adoration shone in Mycroft's eyes as he looked at the policeman whose own superior had called a twit. He cradled the man's face in his hands. "You truly are as clever as you are lovely, David," he told him. "Tomorrow I want to talk to the employer of the late Patrick O'Shea but first I'm going to talk to Sherlock. Perhaps we have the chance to talk after the show otherwise we'll meet again here on Friday."
They sat in silence for a while before Greg spoke up.
"I have so many questions," he told Mycroft before leaning closer. "I'd like to know all about you but I also want to tell you about myself, about my life."
Mycroft nuzzled into the man's hair and pressed his lips to the warm skin behind one ear. "I feel the same but right now it is too dangerous. We will get to know each other properly when this case is solved."
They traded kisses and touches for several minutes, completely enamoured with each other but both men had work to do the following day and it was getting late.
"Are you going to come to the show again tomorrow?" Greg asked, hinting that on Thursday he would star again as the Gregorian Gladiator.
"I wouldn't miss it for all the tea in China," Mycroft replied, before they stood up and got ready to leave.
Like the night before, they put everything back in order before more kisses were shared in the dark. They would see each other again in less than twenty-four hours and even two days wasn't long, the moment they walked towards their respective homes even less than one felt like an eternity.