The afternoon passed pleasantly, the group chatting merrily, Rosie being passed from one arm to the other. As the sun set and the baby was put to bed, Greg found himself alone with John, as Sherlock was reading a bed time story and Mycroft had been in deep conversation on his phone for at least an hour. John gave him a cheeky grin, raising his eyebrows. "So, how long? – You and Mycroft." Greg's heart skipped a beat, he felt the blood rush into his head. "It's fine, by the way." His friend added. "I'm just curious." "Uhm yeah, a while actually. After Irene Adler was assumed dead and showed up in Molly's morgue he asked me to keep an eye on Sherlock. Send me to Baskerville later to make sure his brother doesn't get himself into trouble again." "So you just found a connection in your shared worry for Sherlock?" "Kind of. Spend a lot of time together. Mycroft's not as tough as he looks. I saw that, after a while. He needs someone." John smiled kindly, nodding. "Yeah I know what that's like. You don't want to tell Sherlock?" "He isn't ready."

Their conversation was interrupted by Sherlock re-entering the room, announcing that Rosie was now fast asleep and that he had now successfully memorized an impressive selection Grimm's fairy tales. They said their goodbyes – Mycroft putting the Prime Minister on hold to shake his brother's hand – and soon Greg found himself back on the backseat of the sleek, black car.

His call ended, Mycroft leaned back with a long sigh. "Please promise me you will never ask to adopt a child, this wailing will haunt my dreams." Greg looked up in surprise. "What makes you think I'd ask for that?" Shifting nervously in his seat, he shrugged. "You obviously liked her. The way you watched my brother and Doctor Watson you seemed quite fond of the thought of parenthood." "I'm just very happy for them, that's all. They deserve some peace after everything that happened." Greg stretched out his hand, taking Mycroft's into his own, tracing the soft outline of veins under his skin. "We never really defined out relationship, did we?" he asked quietly, looking into bright blue eyes that held such mystery for him. "I never thought it necessary. My feelings for you should have been very clear." They had been, Greg remembered, he would never forget that evening, seeing Mycroft so fragile and completely trusting. "Yes" he said softly "they were. John asked about us. I told you he'd notice." "And?" "Only told him you aren't ready." He interlaced their fingers, holding Mycroft's hand tightly. "You know they wouldn't care. No one would judge. Sherlock and John are raising a child together-" "It's not about you being a man it is about the concept of me being in a romantic relationship at general. I do not wish to discuss this matter further, Gregory."

He turned his head, staring out of the window. They spent the rest of the car ride in silence, watching the houses pass by, the first stars appearing on the black velvet sky. The driver dropped Greg off by his flat. They didn't spend every night together. He had accepted that but he didn't like it. After all this, there was still something about the prospect of a relationship that seemed to frighten Mycroft. Sometimes he found himself wondering if there was any point in even trying, being shut out, again and again, until eventually he got an evening or two in which Mycroft allowed himself to show his feelings openly. But in the end, it was all worth it. There was no going back. His heart had inevitably tied itself to that broken, gentle man and there was no way he'd ever give up hope that one day he might be able to openly share this joy with his friends. He closed his eyes, lying down on the couch, remembering the evening after Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead...

Inspector Lestrade had gotten used to the strange procedures one had to go through to meet with Mycroft Holmes. Being picked up by a random car and then guided through the large, silent faculty by an old, wheezing butler until he arrived in a rather gloomy office. They had spent many hours in that room and others, discussing mostly Sherlock or certain cases they were working on. Sometimes their conversations had gotten more private, Greg talking about old cases and sometimes his teen years, Mycroft sharing stories from his and Sherlock's childhood. He had looked much happier then, lost in memories of a time without - or at least with less- burden on his shoulders.
It had been these conversations, in which he opened his heart and his concern and love for his brother was most visible, that had made Greg fall hopelessly in love with Mycroft. At first it had scared him, the happiness he felt when they were in a room together, the way his heart beat faster when he looked at him, the overwhelming affection that rushed through him whenever Myc smiled. Many times he had tried to ignore it, to fight it, but at last he had given in and accepted his fate. There was no point in trying to change something that felt so true and right. As he now stepped inside in the dimly lit room, Mycroft looking up from his papers from behind the large desk of dark oak wood, Greg embraced the fluttering of his heart and the warmth in his stomach. "I suppose I owe you an apology?" Mycroft asked, lifting the newspaper with the headline 'Detective with the hat is back'. Greg shrugged. "Explains why I haven't seen you for months." He said calmly, "You could've trusted me, though, I wouldn't have told anyone."
"It was Sherlock who decided who was to be told and who had to remain in the dark. If too many people had known, the risk would have been too high." Mycroft's eyes darkened. "Not even I knew from the beginning. He spared my parents the pain, of course, payed them a quick visit before he disappeared, but I was not included in his plan until I was called in to identify the body a few days later. Those were, between the two of us, without doubt the most terrible days I have ever experienced. I presume I deserved it." He buried his face in his hands with a sigh.
Greg walked around the desk, so that he was next to Mycroft, leaning against the table top, picking up the newspaper. He scanned the article on the front page, then dropped the paper and leaned towards Mycroft. "You were trying to do the right thing." He said softly. "Not gonna say I agree with what you decided to do but what's done is done. No point agonising over this."

Mycroft lifted his head, his eyes glistening. "I am sorry." He whispered. Greg wondered how long he had been holding this back, the guilt and self-loathing, two years of battling the demons he raised, alone in the darkness. The pain was now written all over the other man's face, crystal blue eyes shining with tears, his face open in pure vulnerability. Something happened between the two men in that moment of complete trust and understanding, something they would never quite be able to describe or understand. Greg's heart ached with affection and sympathy in a way he had never experienced before.
It was almost instinctively as he reached out and took Mycroft's hand, holding it tightly.
"It's okay"
His heart skipped at the soft touch, he barely dared to breath, drawing circles on the pale, freckled skin. Suddenly, being with Mycroft was as easy, as natural, as breathing. Without thinking, he gently pulled him up by his hands, so that they stood face to face. Hesitantly, Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder, who pulled him into a tight embrace. The world stood perfectly still. Slowly, Mycroft's breathing calmed and he stopped shaking. He smelled like home, Greg thought, like expensive perfume, paper and new, fancy car but mostly he smelled like home. Warm and familiar and safe. The fabric of the expensive suit felt thick and rough under his fingertips. Mycroft lifted his head, smiling shyly, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully. Cupping Greg's face with his hand, tracing his jawline with his thumb, he whispered in wonder "I never really noticed how beautiful you are…" He blushed, pale cheeks filling with colour, as he realized he had spoken out loud. Greg chuckled softly, placing his hand under Mycroft's chin, gently guiding his face towards his own. As easy and natural as breathing. He closed his eyes. Their lips met, careful and hesitant. Both acted instinctively, embracing each other softly. Mycroft tasted a bit of wine. He kissed so carefully, as if he expected to break something should he move too quickly or be too rough. Greg gasped softly at the tingling sensation that filled his stomach, the overwhelming joy and affection that swept over him. Mycroft, too, exhaled in surprise, whispering, without separating his lips from his lover's "So very, very beautiful".