"I'm going to teach you how to slow dance."
Mycroft showed his apprehension on his face. "Gregory, I really don't think this is a good idea."
Greg shook his head. "Course it is. Come on…here…"
He took Mycroft's hands and placed them just above his hips, then put his hands in the same place on Mycroft.
Mycroft winced. "No…please, don't put your hands there, Gregory."
Greg tilted his head. "Why not?"
The posh man lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm…I'm fat."
Greg shook his head vehemently. "No, you're not! Why would you think that?"
"N-no reason."
Greg raised his eyebrow. Mycroft never stuttered. This was strange.
"Please, Gregory…just forget it." Mycroft was practically begging.
"Well…okay…"
Greg shrugged and placed his hands on Mycroft's shoulders. He looked at the other man's face. "Now…we just kind of rock back and forth to the music."
"That's it?"
Greg nodded. "Yeah. It's pretty simple."
"Well then…" Mycroft began to sway gently.
An awkward silence fell over the two of them. They watched as Sherlock entered, soaking wet and clutching one of Greg's blankets. He was followed closely by a concerned looking John.
"Come on, Sherlock…Let's get you dried off." John was fluttering about the consulting detective like a nervous mother hen.
"John, I am fine, thank you." Sherlock said in a cold voice, and entering the hallway slammed and locked the bathroom door behind him.
John stayed there for a few moments, wearing a very confused look. When Sherlock didn't come back, the army doctor sighed and headed back towards the kitchen.
Greg shook his head in disbelief. "That's crazy. He loves him so much but receives so much grief for it." He looked wistfully off in the distance. "I wonder if anyone will ever love me like that."
I do.
Mycroft didn't dare say it. He was afraid Greg would run away, or worse, reject him. Instead, he coughed awkwardly and tried to change the subject.
"So…Gregory, I was just wondering…is this a costume party?"
Greg nodded ruefully. "It's supposed to be. But only me and the dynamic deducing duo actually dressed up."
Mycroft tilted his head, looking Greg up and down. "But…what's your costume?"
Greg laughed. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked, gesturing down at his outfit.
Mycroft tried to use his deducing skills. Greg was wearing an immaculate suit with a dress shirt and tie, and there was an umbrella on his arm.
Who did he know who dressed like that?
Mycroft went through his mind bank of personal and business acquaintances of both him and Gregory, but couldn't find a single person who fit the bill.
Mycroft gave him a blank glance and shook his head, slightly miffed that he couldn't figure it out. "I…I don't know."
Greg tilted his head. Mycroft couldn't figure out this easy question?
Strange.
Greg raised his eyebrows and smiled at the other man.
"I'm dressed as you, of course!"
Mycroft's mouth formed a perfect O.
"You…what?"
Greg smiled at Mycroft's astonishment. "I'm dressed as you. You know, suits, umbrella, et cetera…"
Mycroft stared at him, confused. "But…why would you want to dress as me?"
Greg frowned. "Why not? I've liked you for forever, Mycroft. It…it just made sense."
"But I'm so…"
Greg raised an eyebrow. "So what?"
Mycroft looked down at his feet. "I'm so fat and…and so ugly! Why in the world would you want to dress as me?"
Greg looked at him, concerned. "That's the second time you've said that this evening. Why would you think that?"
"Because I am!" Mycroft exclaimed. He looked around and lowered his voice. "It's true and you know it. No woman would look twice at me."
"Maybe not…but I would," Gregory whispered.
Mycroft's mouth hung open for the second time that evening. "You…you would?"
"Mycroft Holmes, you are not fat, nor are you ugly." Greg said, getting closer with every word. The music was slow and quiet now, filling the room with a peaceful white noise. "Mycroft Holmes, you are the most beautiful, gorgeous, adorable, amazing man I have ever met."
"Mycroft Holmes, I love you."
"Come on, Sherlock…let's get you dried off."
John followed him closely, but the detective brushed him off.
"John, I am fine, thank you." Sherlock pulled away and stormed off to the bathroom.
John raised his eyebrows, confused. What had just happened?
When Sherlock didn't come back, he sighed and headed for the kitchen. Probably just one of Sherlock's pride things.
I can't. I can't do it. I can't tell him.
There's no way he'll love me after he finds out about what happened all those years ago.
If John ever finds out about my past, he'll never look at me again.
Sherlock gripped the edges of the sink basin with his hands, knuckles turning white. His eyes were red and he was shaking.
It would never work between the two of them. Not now, now that John knew about the unexplained horrors in Sherlock's past.
Eventually, John would want to know about why social gatherings were so frightful for Sherlock and, to an extent, Mycroft.
They would never be able to be together in the way they both wanted.
Because Sherlock could never tell him.
John would ask and ask. But Sherlock would always refuse to tell him.
John would think that Sherlock didn't trust him.
Their relationship would fall apart.
That was why it could never get that far. He must never bring up the subject. He must avoid Mycroft, and try to ward off any topic that might remind John of the idea.
He could never tell him about what had happened that one night so long ago. How one little event had made everything spiral out of control. The abuse. The scars. Mycroft's eating disorder…
No. John must never know.
The truth would tear us apart.