So, it's been a while, but a new chapter. It's not very science-y and a lot of angsting, but it'll get better, I promise. Glorious times are ahead!

Enjoy!

Beta'd by lovely Lily, any mistakes that remain are my own.


"A person starts to live when he can live outside himself." - Einstein


Mycroft Holmes had no problem picked what to wear, because he owned suits. Suits came in sets, two-piece or three-piece and were all purchased with a shirt. His tie collection was stunning and the advantage of wearing mostly black and grey was that most colours worked with a simple white shirt.

So why couldn't he decide tonight? Anthea had thoughtfully ruled out the three-piece suits, saying it would make Doctor Lestrade too tense with the formality and she was now sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, typing away on her phone. Probably setting up a conference with ESA.

"Anthea," he started, "I am quite certain I do not have the proper social etiquette for this."
"I could pick up a book for you, sir," Anthea said, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.
Mycroft turned around sharply and tried to cast her a stern glance, but the woman was not paying attention to his reaction.

He stood still in front of a rack of ties. He'd gone with a less formal, single buttoned black two-piece. The trousers were loosely cut, but the jacket hugged his chest pleasantly.

"I need to lose weight," Mycroft murmured at his reflection in the mirror above the rack, one that didn't even show him his whole body. Anthea made another vaguely amused sound from her chair and looked up, one eyebrow arched up.

"This is hardly the time, sir. The blue-grey one the Queen's assistant got you, sir."

Mycroft picked the tie from the rack and held it up to the mirror.

"It softens your features, sir," Anthea said matter-of-factly.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, tying it swiftly around his neck and straightening the collar, even if it didn't need it.

His assistant got out of her chair and walked up to her boss, turning him away from the mirror. She opened the top button of his shirt and loosened the tie before he could comment. Then her phone buzzed, signifying the arrival of the car. She looked at her boss, who was fidgeting nervously with the collar again, his fingers itching to do up the button.

"Don't be so formal, Mr. Holmes. It will make Doctor Lestrade uncomfortable, he doesn't seem the type for bow tie events."

Mycroft nodded softly and made his way to the car after one quick glance to the full-length mirror on the door of the room. He had to be relaxed and warm. The exact opposite of what he was, then. Excellent.


Mycroft hadn't stepped out of the car when he picked Greg up, as was customary for him. He let his driver ring the bell and escort the biologist under an umbrella, black with a beautiful mahogany handle, to the car. There he sat, sitting up straight, his hands neatly folded around his phone on his lap. This was how he always picked up people in a car, regardless of the purpose of the appointment.

Greg looked stunning. Even as he was sliding into the car, something that could not be done gracefully even after years of practice, and fussed a little with the lapels of his coat and his trousers. Mycroft watched him with a vague smile on his face and caught Greg's eyes as soon as the man looked up.

"Gregory," he said, buying himself time to take him in. The other man was wearing a pair of new looking jeans and a button up shirt, he looked effortlessly casual. On top of that, he looked perfect for the venue they'd be dining in.

They made it to the restaurant quickly and quietly, in which they didn't talk, and sat down at a table by the window, by Greg's choice, and Mycroft was dimly aware of the fact Greg's skin looked pleasantly tanned. The biologist smiled a bright grin and settled as Mycroft ordered a good wine and opened the menu in front of him. He knew what he would order anyway.

"What do you recommend?" Greg asked him. Mycroft pointed out some delicately selected meals, those he knew to be both filling and healthy. Greg listened to him politely, nodded when he heard an ingredient he liked particularly, but picked something Mycroft hadn't recommended. Mycroft was greeted warmly by the waitress serving them, they ordered and were consequently left behind with two glasses of water and a salt and pepper set.

Greg smiled again. Mycroft looked at him. They said nothing.

"So I've been looking forward to this all day. Sort of helped me pull through," Greg started. "How are you settling in?" he asked when Mycroft didn't have an immediate response to the flattery.

"Excellently," Mycroft answered, "I have yet to meet many of the prestiged professors, but then I'm told that that is a privilege one has to earn gradually."
"I thought they moved the department to a different building just for you," Greg teased.

"Pshh, a mere rumour," the physicist waved his hand a little too dismissively to hide his obvious irritation. He cleared his throat and and started again: "I finally took the time to look up your research. It's absolutely fascinating."

"I thought we weren't discussing work."

"But surely, this is not work. We're discussing a passion."

Greg laughed, a tad too loudly, "Ha, no. Biology was never a passion of mine. It's interesting to its very core and base, but it certainly not my hobby."

Mycroft had never even considered this approach to his research. Both Holmeses were immersed in their work one hundred per cent, practically married to it, often to the older sibling's regret. "So what did you want to be when you grew up," he asked. A childish question, but he was genuinely curious. Personally, he'd known he was going to be researcher from the moment he started his science class in primary school.

"I wanted to be an officer on a motorbike."

It was Mycroft's turn to laugh, although he was more subtle about it, "A contradiction in its very term."

"How so?" Greg asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"An officer of the law must be the very example of safety. Those driving a motorbike are generally not the most safecharacters. Actually, the very bike must be the most dangerous and certainly reckless vehicle on the road," Mycroft vented and immediately regretted his words. "Although I must confess that, if you'd become an office, you might have actually done something useful for society," he attempted to recover. A hole in the ground to swallow him up whole would be convenient right around this point.

Greg spluttered and, for a moment, considered the thought on just walking out. Ignoring that Mycroft has just called his research 'useless to society' just moments after claiming it was interesting, he was also just plain wrong.

"I've driving a motorcycle from age eighteen. I haven't had 'wild years', I'm a scientist for goodness sake. I have never been in trouble with the law once, paid my debts and do not have any visible tattoos," he had two covered by clothing, but it was unlikely Mycroft Holmes would ever see those, "And when I go for a ride, the drug dealers are not standing by the side of the road and calling out my name. They'd probably get hit. It is, above all, a social hobby."

"No, I -"

"In fact, I met my last partner there."

It stopped Mycroft still in his tracks. He vaguely remembered Anthea mentioning to nevertalk about exes on a first date. He didn't have any, so that problem was easily solved. But Gregory did and what kind of ex.

"The one who cheated?"

"Phillipe, he was called Phillipe."

"He's French," the disdain was dripping from Mycroft's voice, "I'm sorry he cheated on you, but he's French."

"That had nothing to do with him being French. He grew up in London, you know. What do you have against the French anyway? Unsavory types? Drive motorcycles too much in the warm southern French weather?"

Mycroft huffed and picked up his glass.

"Oh really, you're stillnot over the 100 Year War? That's a little vindictive, isn't it?"

"I don't think people who like frog legs are particularly good."

Now it was Greg's turn to laugh, somewhat disbelievingly.

"You hate the French because of some strange food?"

"I spent every summer of my childhood with my Frenchgrandmother, actually. I have a more profound ground for my dislike."

"That had nothing to do with his behaviour."

"Why are you defending the boyfriend who cheated on you?" Mycroft knew his argument was pointless, but really. A jealous bile had settled high in his throat and he just needed to swallow it down. He had no right to be, of course. No right and yet all he wanted to do was lash out at this Phil character. Blame it on the awkward genes. And then Phil had to be Phillipeand don't start to him about the French, because his grandmother definitely didn't introduce him to that culture the right way. He just despised the woman with a passion and this was the moment to lash out at the French. - Perhaps he'd had too much to drink or maybe this was just a bad day. Or perhaps it was this damned suit.

"Is that even any of your business?"

"You're not over him," Mycroft near-whispered.

Greg stopped dead and stared, his mouth opened slightly and blinking silently. He had no response, none whatsoever. Where was this coming from? How did this man know? Know anything? And why was it so easy? He wasn't a fighting person, he didn't like confrontation particularly, but now he just wanted to scream and shout. Maybe then the Mycroft he knew would come back.

"That is none of your business," he said decisively and he considered a dramatic walk-out for the umpteenth time since Phil's name came up.

Mycroft just stared fiercely at his glass.

"OK," Greg said slowly, "OK, this is bad, OK? This isn't - this doesn't count. I'm finishing my food and then I'm going home to sleep. I have an early start."

"Excellent idea," Mycroft said, without any warmth in his voice. He shuffled in his seat and sat up a little straighter.


Greg didn't understand how it could have happened. Well, he understood, he was there. He didn't remember being this bad at dating. How did people do it? It was obvious Mycroft didn't think much of him; the man was doing places. No, the researcher had beenplaces and was looking to settle down. Or, to get with someone. Or, get with someone who wasn't Greg.

He groaned loudly, startling a bird outside the window, and dropped himself on the couch in his tiny flat.

What had he done wrong?

Mention his ex, for one. Mention he wasn't truly over him, perhaps. In his defence, Mycroft had insulted his work. He had insulted his work in the casual manner that Phil used to. He had hurt him without any apparent effort and they didn't even know each other yet. How easily could he hurt Greg when they would? Or if they ever would.

Greg groaned again and flailed his arms into the air above his head. He kept them there, balancing his arms on his shoulders, looking at the relaxed hands from where his head was rested on the back of the couch. He felt the tension slowly seeping out of his shoulders as his shoulder blades realigned. He'd spent most of the evening hunched forward and tense. He was too old for this.

Did Mycroft even know how to read people, to communicate with them, read the subtle signs? Maybe that's why everything went wrong. Had he even ever been in a relationship? Would it take one of them just jumping the other with an insane love confession and a house without parents for the weekend. That's what Greg remembered doing when he was in his first relationship. How could he make it clear he wantedsomething if the man wouldn't know how to read the signs?

Mycroft was smart. Mycroft was beyond smart, he was a Holmes. He could read people, he could flirt, be flirted with.

Maybe Greg had just misunderstood, but then Mycroft had accepted his invitation out to dinner. If only he'd made it clear it was a date. Because it was a date. Right? It had been a date, one he'd completely screwed up. One they'd screwed up together.

It had started with that damned suit. Tight around the man's chest, his top button opened and completely unlike the Mycroft he knew. There was a slick man standing in front of him, one who just wanted to sit on a couch and slouch for the rest of the evening. Greg was too old to deal with suave people, it just didn't fit. And then the man had started speaking, somehow unsure and completely counteracting any feigned carelessness his outfit so desperately tried to broadcast. And then the man had finally gathered his wits and confidence and that had ended in a screaming match, a full on verbal fight, in the middleof a place he actually quite liked.

It simply hadn't been Mycroft in front of him and he hadn't had the faintest clue how to respond. So he had lashed out. He would have to apologise tomorrow and they could just go back to be friends. Or colleagues.