Greg stood in front of his wardrobe, dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts; very short boxer shorts. Looking at the clothes he owed he envied the man he would meet in half an hour. Mycroft certainly had lots of tasteful clothes for all occasions and he always looked impeccable. The DI's possession were mostly suits and shirts that could survive long hours in the office as well as the occasional fight during an arrest. The rest were casual trousers and shirts that somehow didn't seem right to wear when visiting the elegant Government official.
A loud knock on the door startled him in his contemplation. Greg groaned. Probably Mr. Merryweather who had forgotten his keys and locked himself out again. Slipping into a dressing gown he hurried to the door.
"Sorry, Mr. Merryweather I don't have... Sherlock?"
Before Greg could tell the lanky detective that right now he had absolutely no time for a visit and since when did Sherlock visit him at home anyway, the man had strut inside like he owned the place.
"Obviously you have no idea what to wear for a date with my brother," Sherlock told him.
"What? Of course I do," Greg protested, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew he was about to date his older sibling.
The consulting detective fixed him with his usual 'you're such an idiot' look and handed him a brown paper-bag.
"Wear these!"
He walked out of the door again but before he closed it, he gave the surprised Inspector a lopsided smile. "You owe me a case, Lestrade." Sherlock winked and was gone before Greg could think of anything to say.
Looking at his watch, Greg gasped. Unless he wanted to be late he had to leave in ten minutes. Taking the clothes out of the bag Sherlock had brought, he shrugged and pulled them on.
oOo
A shirt in each hand, Mycroft stood in his walk-in closet, trying to decide what to wear. How he envied Gregory. The man had plenty of casual clothes he could just throw on and look delectable. As for himself, he felt weird wearing anything but a three-piece suit while for once he rather wanted to wear something informal.
"He's going to be here in fifteen minutes tops. Unless you want Lestrade to ravaging you at the doorstep, I would advise against greeting him dressed only in your briefs."
Mycroft jumped when his brother appeared next to him all of a sudden. He shook his head, not bothering to tell Sherlock off for picking the lock to his house again.
"Unless you're here to help, you might as well leave."
Sherlock cocked his head and picked up a royal-blue shirt, Mycroft had obviously put aside.
"What's wrong with this one?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Nothing really but..."
"Then wear it! That and those trousers." Sherlock pointed at a pair of cream-coloured slacks. When his brother didn't move to put on the suggested items, the detective came closer. "Do you want me to stay? I've got all night."
That got Mycroft moving. He began putting on a vest and the shirt.
"Leave the two top buttons open. He'll enjoy the view," Sherlock told him, when his sibling began buttoning his shirt.
Annoyed by the words that caused his face to heat in embarrassment, Mycroft studied his brother's expression in the mirror. "Did you come all the way to help me select my outfit for tonight?"
"Of course not." Sherlock showed him the umbrella he had brought. "You would have used it as an excuse to show up in my flat again." Leaning the umbrella against the wall he turned to leave. For a moment it looked like Sherlock would add 'have fun' and Mycroft would thank him but they remained silent and the consulting detective left.
oOo
Having rung the bell Greg wondered if his heartbeat could be heard through the closed door for he was almost vibrating with anticipation. He looked in awe at Mycroft's house, thinking it was appropriate that the man lived in such an impressive building.
The door was opened moments later by the inhabitant who ushered him into the warmth and took his jacket to hang up. Greg had pondered how he should greet Mycroft. A hand-shake seemed too formal but a kiss or a hug was probably too bold.
Mycroft made the decision for him by placing a hand on the small of his back and guiding him further inside the house and into the living-room, where a fire in an open fire-place created a pleasant warmth.
"Dinner is still in the oven, Gregory. Would you prefer a drink or a quick tour through the house?" Mycroft asked, his eyes roaming over his visitor's body appraisingly.
For a moment Greg wondered if Sherlock's choice of clothing for him, expensive jeans-style trousers in charcoal grey and a soft, pine-green shirt with black pinstripes, had been wrong but then he noticed that Mycroft's face looked more flushed than the temperature of the room could be accountable for and the elegant hands twitched once or twice like he longed to touch him.
"A tour, I think. The last meal I had was breakfast and I rather don't drink alcohol on an empty stomach."
"Very well then." Mycroft lead him to a room that was dominated by a large wooden table. A few authentic suits of armour stood along the wall, keeping silent watch.
"The dining-room," Mycroft explained. "I hardly come here unless I'm particularly depressed."
Greg studied his face to see if he was joking but Mycroft looked serious and in his voice was no humour. Looking around the DI could imagine getting depressed in this magnificent but gloomy room if one sat here all alone. Carefully he opened the visor of one of the helmets and peered inside.
"What are you looking for?" Mycroft inquired.
"Just wanted to check if there was a ghost inside."
Mycroft snorted in amusement. "You don't believe in ghosts do you, Gregory?"
"Of course, I do. During the night those knights probably come alive to fight." He grinned, imagining the empty suits of armour hacking away at each other when nobody was around.
"Silly man," Mycroft chided but smiled nonetheless.
While looking out the window into the dark, Greg spotted Mycroft's reflection in the window pane. Deciding he could wait no longer to kiss the man, who had been watching his curious exploration patiently, the DI approached him and touched his hand to a cheek that was as freshly shaven as his own.
"You look gorgeous," Greg whispered, before pulling him close to claim the inviting mouth. Very much approving of the action, Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and returned the kiss with vigour.
They kept kissing until a distinctly audible sound from Greg's stomach made them break apart. "I am a bit hungry," the DI admitted, looking sheepishly at his host. "Skipped lunch," he added with a wink.
"Then I shall feed you. I hope you approve of the food I have chosen," Mycroft said. Taking his guest's hand he led him to the kitchen. A delicious smell Greg couldn't quite place, came from the oven. When the food appeared, placed in two separate casserole dishes, Greg laughed out loud.
"I can hardly believe it. You cooked fish and chips?"
Mycroft's eyes shone with delight, seeing his surprise had been a success. Undoubtedly Gregory had expected something much more fancy. He put a bottle with malt vinegar on the table and two glasses. "I thought you'd rather enjoy it," Mycroft said and pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge.
When Greg read the label he laughed again. "Sheriff's Tipple?"
"Yes, it's from the Castle Rock Brewery. I have other beer if you don't like it."
The DI looked at Mycroft with blatant affection. "I presume there's also dessert," he remarked, his voice seductively low, looking pointedly at the bit of ginger chest-hair that was visible in the neck-line of Mycroft's shirt.
Noticing his host was all in a fluster, Greg smiled at him, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth and stabbed his fork into the first piece of fish.
Don't worry. There's going to be "dessert" for Greg in the next chapter. Very delicious dessert - spiced with plenty of ginger! ;-)