Chapter Fourteen: Repentance with Tetley's,

"What time is the meeting with the American Ambassador?"

Anthea didn't look up from her Blackberry to reply, "The meeting has been postponed until the fifth."

Mycroft glanced across with a frown. "Why? They've been pestering me for an appointment for weeks."

"Change of circumstance, sir."

He pursed his lips, turning his face towards the window. "Indeed." There were very few people with the ability to arouse the suspicions of Mycroft Holmes – there wasn't much that could get past his borderline omniscience – but Anthea had learnt from the best, unfortunately, and was more than capable of using Mycroft's tricks to her own advantage. He knew that the sudden silence from Lestrade last night could be traced directly back to his assistant, although he had no idea how she would've known what was going on, or what she had said to him... nor did he have the faintest idea how the subject should be broached now.

"Anthea-"

"Your appointment with the PM tomorrow morning has also been cancelled," she spoke over him, thumbs tapping erratically at the tiny keyboard. "As has everything in your diary up until two pm tomorrow afternoon."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Change of circumstances."

Her uncooperativeness was beginning to become trying. "Who's circumstances?"

She glanced up with a placid expression. "Yours."

Mycroft could feel his ears beginning to burn. "Excuse me?"

"Matters of more urgency which require your full and immediate attention have surfaced, so I have rearranged your schedule accordingly."

"Immediate matters such as...?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Her tone was no different than it would have been had the answer had been 'Boris Johnson'.

Mycroft gave an involuntary twitch. "Oh for f-"

Anthea threw her employer a quick, withering glance, "Mr Holmes, the manner in which you and Inspector Lestrade have been dancing around one another is both unhealthy and unnecessary," she informed him sternly. "And, with respect, sir, it appears to be you who is doing the majority of the dancing."

Having opened his mouth to protest, Mycroft realised – correctly – that it would be a futile attempt and shut it again.

"Taking some time to attend to your personal affairs will not put the nation in jeopardy," Anthea continued more gently, "and I do not believe that it can end badly. Despite your best efforts, sir, the detective inspector has yet to be put off."

"Mmm." Mycroft turned his head away from her, long fingers drumming thoughtfully on the door handle on which his hand was resting. "So it would seem."

Unknown: Cancel any plans you have for this evening. –A

Today, 11:22

D I Lestrade: I'm not cancelling anything if I'm going to be stood up again.

Today, 11:35

Unknown: Trust me. –A

Today, 11:35

Greg: Sorry John, gonna have to put tonight on hold – something's come up.

Today, 12:03

John W: No worries, I'll be out with Mike anyway if you change your mind. Headway been made with M?

Today, 12:18

Greg: Ok I'll let you know if/when it all falls to shit again. Potentially, but we'll see. Not expecting anything – details very hazy. Heard it from A so no idea what's going on tbh.

Today, 12:32

John W: Good luck! Let me know how it goes.

Today, 12: 39

Greg: Cheers, will do. Probably see you later.

Today, 12: 47

Lestrade looked up from the television as his intercom buzzed. It was just gone nine and he had already decided that, after this match had finished, he'd take John up on his offer and meet up with him and Mike at the pub. Despite Anthea's assurance to the contrary, Greg hadn't really been expecting guests.

Struggling to his feet semi-reluctantly, Lestrade picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

'Hello? It's me, Mycroft,' said Mycroft, his voice indistinct through the earpiece.

His nervousness was audible and Greg couldn't help but smile as he pressed the door-release. "Alright, come up."

He felt oddly normal, Lestrade noticed with mild interest as he unbolted and opened his front door, waiting for Mycroft to appear on the stairs – nowhere near as nervous as he had been waiting in Covent Garden. He felt on top of things, that's what it was. Made a bloody change...

Folding his arms on the banister of the landing, Greg leaned over to greet the top of Mycroft's head. "I didn't think you were coming."

Mycroft froze, three steps from the landing–he had been preparing himself mentally for their meeting and the suddenness of Greg's appearance had swiftly undone any progress that he had been able to make. Fingers tightening around the handle of his umbrella to prevent himself from biting his lip, he looked up to where Greg was draped over the banister and offered a self-conscious smile in return, not quite sure of the correct to response to such a greeting.

"Feeling better?"

A frown creased Mycroft's brow. "Pardon?"

"Feeling better?" Greg repeated. "You know, after having such a hectic week."

"Ah."

At least he had the decency to look abashed, Lestrade noted with a hint of satisfaction.

Mycroft climbed the last remaining stairs slowly, using his umbrella to lever himself up as though he were climbing a particularly difficult mountain. Standing on the edge of the landing, Mycroft spoke very slowly to his shoes, "I have behaved atrociously towards you and...I can only try to apologise for..." sighing heavily, he rubbed his forehead, "for being a complete dick," he concluded, raising his eyes with a rueful shrug. "Here is my peace offering."

Greg reached out with a questioning look to accept the Tesco carrier bag that was being held out to him, and then laughed as he peered inside. "Really?" he pulled out a small, blue box and held it up to examine it. "Tetley's?"

"I wondered whether or not you might like to educate me?"

Touched by the sincerity of the gesture, Greg closed the distance between them and briefly grasped Mycroft's shoulder. "You don't need to apologise, I do understand." The words of reassurance seemed to do their job – beneath his touch, Lestrade felt Mycroft relax somewhat, the tension in his expression softening into a relieved smile.

Following Greg through into the kitchen, Mycroft lingered behind him – eyes roaming analytically over the flat. It still smelled new and there were piles of unpacked boxes stacked in the hall, but the potential homeliness was apparent nonetheless and Mycroft couldn't help but feel a little bit proud that he had had a hand in helping along the conception of Greg's new life.

Flicking the switch of the kettle, Lestrade turned and leaned back on the counter, watching Mycroft scrutinise his flat. "What do you think?"

The other man nodded appreciatively. "I like it. It's certainly coming along."

"Slowly. Very slowly now I have no-one to pester me to do things." Greg turned his back and busied himself with tea preparation, throwing two round bags into a couple of his most chipped and tea-stained mugs.

The barely perceptible hitch in Lestrade's last comment, as flippant as it was spoken, made Mycroft hesitate as he wandered through to join him in the kitchen, feeling suddenly very much as though he were intruding upon a particularly private thought.

"Is it hard?" he asked softly, standing by Greg's side at the counter. "To get used to it?"

Lestrade did not look up to reply; instead he busied himself with retrieving the half-pint of semi-skimmed from the fridge. "Yeah, I suppose it is," he said, crouching down to peer into depths of the bottom-shelf. "I mean, obviously when you've had twenty odd years to grow accustomed to something, and then suddenly it's gone..." he straightened up, milk in hand, and trudged back to the boiled kettle. "I suppose it does take a while."

"It'll get easier," Mycroft offered tentatively – whether it was true or not, he was uncertain, but it seemed to be what was normally said in such situations.

"Yeah." The conversation was closed. Greg snatched up the kettle and filled the mugs almost to the brim with steaming water.

Mycroft bit his lip and watched, sideways-on, as Greg's hands travelled deftly from kettle to mug to teaspoon. His movements were brisk and slapdash, with none of the fine precision Mycroft used when brewing tea, and yet Mycroft could recognise a certain unrefined elegance there, even in the way the milk was poured haphazardly into the mugs, turning the tea a weak grey colour.

Having completed his task, Greg pressed one of the mugs into Mycroft's hands with a wry, "Enjoy!"

He watched with an amused smile as Mycroft raised the mug to his lips and took a dutiful sip. The slight wince did not escape his attention. "So, what do you think?"

Mycroft lowered the tea with a contemplative frown, licking his lips thoughtfully. "It's..."

"Disgusting?"

"Different, I think is the word one tends to employ under such circumstances."

Greg laughed, raising his own mug in a toast, although the lightness didn't quite reflect in his eyes.

"You know," he said, taking a deep sip, "I ought to be pretty pissed off at you."

Mycroft felt his heart take an uncomfortable plummet. " 'Ought to be'?"

"Yeah, considering the whole 'you standing me up' thing..." despite the flippant tone, Greg's words were serious and Mycroft could see the weight of the impact last week's events had had on him.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly, doing his best meet the other's eyes. "The intention was there, I promise you..."

"But?"

"But," Mycroft swallowed hard, gaze falling to his feet. "But...when it came to it...It wasn't that I didn't want to, or that I changed my mind, not in the slightest, but..." The truthful answer of 'I was scared' didn't seem an adequate enough response, so Mycroft gave up and shut up instead. It had been foolish of him to hope that this conversation would not surface, and despite the fact that he had spent a good hour or so pacing around his flat thinking up witty and clever responses, Mycroft felt as unprepared for it as ever.

"So what?" Greg pushed, setting his tea down upon the counter and folding his arms over his chest. "So what happens now? We sort things out, again, clear the air, again, and make plans. Then you, despite your best intentions and your PA assuring me that, yes, you are interested, will freak out and here we will be, again, no further forward than before." He hadn't expected to become cross. He had, in actuality, given the matter a great deal of thought and had come to the conclusion that he did, in fact, empathise with Mycroft's position – whether he fully understood it or not. But now they were here together, Greg couldn't help but feel irritated both at the way the situation had progressed and the way in which it appeared to be going. It was not okay, and Lestrade was not about to pretend that it was. "Fucking hell, Mycroft," he sighed, "I've got even less of a clue than you do! I've bared my heart and soul... and I can't do any more."

Grey eyes flickered part way up, lingering at Greg's shoulder, not daring to go any further. "I...I don't know what I should say..."

Lestrade groaned out loud, frustration peaking. "Say what you want to say, if that's at all possible! Say what you feel, say what you think! I don't care, but say something!"

His own gaze, fierce with intent, stole Mycroft's and held it fast with the tenacity of a Rottweiler.

The younger man swallowed hard, knowing that there was no other choice than to... But it was impossible, he couldn't find the words and even if he could he was barely able to breathe let alone speak coherently and what if... and even if not, what if it were like last time, or if he were mistaken and it was completely misplaced...

Every muscle in Mycroft's body tensed. Slamming down his mug on the table beside him, he covered his face in his hands and simply shook his head frantically in reply. The frenzied movements combined with the tightness in his chest, making his head whirl with dizziness.

"Whoah!"

Mycroft felt hands grabbing onto his waist, holding him up as he stumbled backwards and almost lost his balance, his own hands never leaving his face.

"Mycroft-"

"No." He tried to pull away, struggling half-heartedly. "No, I'm fine. It's fine."

The hands, unconvinced, did not budge. "Well, clearly not," he heard Greg say, his voice somewhere close to his ear. "Come on." One of the hands moved only to reposition itself once again on Mycroft's wrist, its touch light and as beseeching as the plea which accompanied it, "Look at me."

Lips pressed together, eyes shut tight, the rest of Mycroft's body remained rigid and immobile as he his hands were gently lowered away from his face – unable to accept the position he was allowing himself to be put in.

Both hands were on his now, gripping them anxiously – trying, in a fruitless attempt, to prise his fingers from the fists in which they were clenched.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Mycroft could hear the tremor in Greg's demand, knew he was behaving ridiculously, knew he was doing nothing to help himself... "Seriously, you're freaking me out, Mycroft, stop it."

With great difficulty, Mycroft obeyed, forcing his eyes open and his hands to relax at least a fraction in a gesture of compliance.

Lestrade was wide-eyed with concern, peering into his face as though he had passed out entirely, threading his fingers through Mycroft's as soon as he felt the muscles give even slightly.

They stood as they were for several infinitely long seconds, neither man willing to jeopardise the fragile moment by adding words.

Tilting his head questioningly to one side, Greg tightened his grip on Mycroft's hands very slightly. The tiniest flicker of a smile appeared in the corners of Mycroft's lips as he squeezed back.

"This is really difficult for you, isn't it?"

"It shouldn't be. Not in comparison..."

"Who's comparing?"

Mycroft's smiled gratefully, palms pressed against Greg's broader ones, feeling the calluses and deep lines etched into the skin against his own."Palm to palm," he murmured as the words presented themselves from the back of his mind.

The smile was reflected and magnified back. "I'm afraid I'm a thousand miles from being a holy pilgrim," Greg pointed out, running his thumb lightly over Mycroft's.

"I think you'll do."

6