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The gentle hubbub in the restaurant makes for a pleasant backdrop while Greg does his best not to say the wrong thing and scare his dinner companion back into the depths of his timidity once more. It was going well, he found, and conversation was rather mellow, with Mycroft as relaxed as he remembered from their previous 'date', a few weeks earlier.

He had been a bit worried that his letter had been too harsh, too confrontational, and that Mycroft would withdraw completely, but it seemed that it just managed to nudge him into the right direction. Well, the direction that Greg had been rather curious about, and now here they are, in a posh restaurant in Chelsea, near the river, eating something of which he wasn't entirely sure what it was (it looked like steak), rubbing knees with his new pen pal. He had already succeeded in casually touching his hand, while getting the Hollandaise sauce, which was placed on Mycroft's side of the table. It had been a very natural thing to do, let his hand go a bit further than the jug with the sauce in it, and graze the skin on Mycroft's hand, ever so lightly. It was received happily - Mycroft didn't flinch - and so Greg left his hand linger there just a little longer that he should. It felt like a small victory.

'This is rather lovely,' Greg grins, looking around him, then fixing his gaze on Mycroft again.

'It certainly is,' Mycroft smiles back, keeping his eyes firmly on the man across from him at the table. 'I'm so glad that you accepted my invite to come here.'

'Well, any chance to eat in this kind of place and not have to pay for it, I'll jump to… Don't think I've ever been anywhere near as posh as this… It's normally something a lot more low-budget…'

'Only the best for you,' Mycroft smiles, while looking away, blushing.

'Of course… Thank you for actually taking the plunge and meeting me in person,' Greg insists on looking into Mycroft's eyes while saying it. 'As much as I love your letters, though… Nothing beats actually being able to interact with you. See your reaction to what I say…'

Mycroft smiles that shy smile again, knowing he was just handed an open invite by the man at his table.

'It's not often I have someone as handsome as you say that to me, Gregory…'

'Likewise here, Mycroft…' Now it's Greg's turn to blush.

'Handsome, really?' Mycroft moves to put his hand on Greg's now, and leaves it there, waiting to see his reaction.

'Yes, Mycroft. Really… You're very handsome, now stop fishing…' he smiles coyly.

'I was worried you might be uncomfortable with me saying this to you… I hardly ever even consider coming on to married men, Gregory,' Mycroft carries on, feeling almost playful. 'How are things between you and your wife?'

Greg retracts his hand and folds it into his other one, places them under his head and leans on them, avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

'Not good, I suppose,' Greg replies abstractedly. Anna had been very distant up until then. He hadn't wanted to think about her, about the implications his burgeoning feelings for the man whose knee was burning a hole in his would have on his marriage. He really didn't want to go there. He wanted to have a good time, and have fun, and feel good, feel wanted.

'Couldn't you tell her?'

'What, about us? About the fact that I enjoy flirting with Sherlock Holmes' big brother? Yeah. She'd love that…' Greg pulls his best sarcastic face. 'She's already on the brink of another depression, Mycroft… I couldn't bear to have her tip over the edge…'

'I know, Gregory, I'm not saying you should. I was just trying to see where you were in… us, I suppose.'

'Yeah, sorry…' Greg looks bashful, unsure of what he should be doing now, knowing he wants to be closer to Mycroft. 'I suppose it is a little hypocritical of me, I'm well aware…'

'Not sure of its hypocritical if you're contemplating possible implications, like you seem to be doing… I'd say it's better than years of lying to her, carrying on behind her back… You're not doing that, are you?'

'Not yet, no…'

There is a silent spell for a few minutes, in which they both carry on with their meal.

'Just so that I know, Gregory, and don't take this the wrong way, but does she often have that?'

'Have what?'

'Well, depressions when things are tough between you two…? From what I heard you say, it sounds rather a lot like what Sherlock does with John, or our mother when our father was still alive. She for instance always had an immense depression every time our father had to leave the country for business. In the week before she was unbearable, and then, when he'd gone, she was fine… Like the prospect of his absence was too much for her. It sounds to me that your wife could have something similar… A cry for attention, perhaps…?'

'You saying she's putting it on? And I'm a sucker for her wiles?'

'No, I didn't mean that… It's probably a mechanism that she's not even aware of, Gregory… She's just trying to hang on to you, and thus far it worked… Maybe you might…' Mycroft tries not to sound desperate, worried that he might have blown it.

'What, leave her, high and dry?' Greg looks very annoyed.

'No, nothing of the sort.' Mycroft whispers, and sees Greg get up from his chair.

'Sorry, Mycroft… I just need to… I just…' he tries to explain, but anger has taken the upper hand and Greg walks off to the gents, hoping to regain some composure.

At the table Mycroft has covered his face with his hands and slumps into his chair a bit more, feeling utterly annoyed with himself. Why did he say what he did? How did he think that it would help this, help Greg? He really meant well, and he could see that this approach to Greg's situation came close to the way most of his family dealt with issues – distant, analytical, cold - as if incapable of knowing when to stop; he'd seen his brother do it so often, showing off his knowledge, not realising that the people on the receiving end were unhappy. And here he is himself, stomping over the feelings of the man he was very keen on holding in his arms. That didn't look very likely with this turn of events.

Meanwhile Greg is holding himself up over one of the wash-basins in the gents, feeling very angry at Mycroft. How can he say those things? He has no idea what it was like to live his life… How dare he be so harsh about his situation at home?! He really has no idea…

Greg looks at himself in the mirror, sees a middle aged man stare back at him. Grey hair, ageing skin, what on earth does Mycroft see in this, he wonders. Why would he, or anybody else, want to pursue that? But he seems to be very keen, very interested in making sure that Greg was going to be more than just a friend. Why?

Many thoughts run across his mind, while he stares at his reflection. Men enter and leave the lushly decorated restroom, using the basin next to his, and after a while Greg moves over to the armchair that is placed in the corner, wondering what he will do with this evening. Is he ready to give up his marriage to start a life with this stiff, repressed, posh man that is in so many ways alien to the life he knows? Would they even stand a chance together? Is it worth it, he thinks to himself, and he feels a big, loud 'YES!' well up from within. If nothing else: what will he do with the (very strong) desires he's feeling for this man?! Is that why his marriage is feeling so strained?

He goes back over what Mycroft said, a few minutes earlier. He did have a point, when he said that Anna could be, well, not quite using her depressions to have some kind of power over Greg (though i comes close), a way to keep him at home. He had wondered this himself, once or twice, and when his love for her was still strong, it never occurred to him that her depressions seemed to come along whenever he was working long weeks, or about to go away for a while for work, and these days, when things weren't going so well between them, they appeared to be happening rather often… Maybe Mycroft was right… Maybe he was onto something…

As he walks back to his chair, Greg notices a slightly crestfallen figure at the table. Mycroft's slightly slumped body is picking at food on his plate. Bits of left-over chicken are chased around the plate, with less vigour then a tired cat.

Greg walks over and when he reaches his destination, he puts a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. He feels the slight judder and then sees him turn around, facing him, with a look of slight shock, uncertainty, followed by a smile.

Greg moves his hand to touch Mycroft's face, gently, and he feels a hand touching his, grasping it, being moved towards a mouth that plants a gentle kiss on it. Greg smiles, carefully.

'Can we go outside for a bit please?' he asks.

Mycroft nods, moves to get up and waves to one of the waiters to come and sort out his bill. When he's paid both men get their coats and walk out into the fresh air.

'Sorry, about earlier,' Greg breaks the silence.

'Don't worry, Gregory, I realise that I've overstepped the mark. Please forgive me.'

'No you haven't,' Greg murmurs. 'You've just pointed something out that I didn't want to see… I should maybe thank you…'

The street is fairly quiet, with the odd taxi rushing past, and people wandering along. Greg feels a hand touch his, and in a bold move goes to grab it, lace his fingers with those belonging to Mycroft. They walk along some more, until they reach the walkway that runs along the river. Lights have come on, and the many autumnal trees make for a very romantic scene. Mycroft squeezes his hand, and turns to smile at Greg.

And with that Greg stops walking. Mycroft takes a second longer to cotton on to this and gets halted by Greg's hand, tugging him to a halt. He does an about turn and faces Greg, close by.

'Let me thank you,' Greg whispers, and moves even closer, his lips touching the other's mouth with slight trepidation. As he moves away he sees a beaming Mycroft, delighted to be thanked in this particular manner. He is met with interest, and the chaste kiss that Greg initiated earlier turns into something more. He feels Mycroft's lips on his, carefully touching first, then changing gears, and Greg pulls Mycroft closer towards him, as one arm goes around his waist, and another finds his face, and hair, and the back of his head, which is held firmly in place. He can feel the same done to himself, and the notion that he is being kissed so eagerly by Mycroft, by another man, is intoxicating. How did he not know until now how incredibly amazing that was?!

Mycroft wants nothing more than to keep holding on to Greg, keep him pressed against his body, close and warm, and to feel his lips, to feel his tongue on his, to hear his breath speed up like that, oh boy, he thinks he is dreaming… But he isn't, this is for real. He hears Greg groan into his mouth – Christ almighty, that is so incredibly erotic, he is sure he isn't going to be able to last until he gets back to his place – and he wants to unbutton that shirt underneath his coat, feel his skin, and…

'Oh, Mycroft… I think we should slow down a little…' Greg pants, though does little else to prove his point.

'Maybe, yeah,' Mycroft breathes, and pulls away slightly, wanting to see Greg's face in mid-flourish. The lights were bright enough to see that he was having trouble keeping it together. 'Do you want to… Do you… Shall I get…'

'No… Yeah… I do, but it think I – mph…' Greg attempts but feels lips on his once again. Kissing Mycroft is even more astonishing than he'd allowed himself to assume. 'No, Mycroft, we should, I want to… Please stop now before I do something I'll regret…'

'Yeah, I suppose you're right… But it's so lovely, this…' Mycroft mumbles and plants another kiss on Greg's lips, just a quick one, and another, and Greg smiles and allows to be kissed some more. They sit down on one of the benches that look out over the Thames, which has the lights and the moon make it seem sparkling. Mycroft puts an arm around Greg and touches his face, runs a thumb along his lips, his temple, his cheek, and goes to kiss him again.

'I'm so happy now, my dear Gregory,' he carries on when he's stopped caressing the mouth of the man in his arms. 'Are you okay?'

Greg nods, smiling. 'Yeah, but also a little freaked, if I'm honest…'

'Is this your first…'

'Hm… Yep…' Greg sniggers, 'So please be careful with me…'

'What? Never even contemplated?' Mycroft asked bemused.

'Not really… Well, once or twice there were guys I'd feel weirdly drawn to, and once I kissed this guy at the end of a survival week in Northumberland when I was at college, but I freaked out before anything really could happen… Since then the blokes-avenue has stayed firmly closed… Until you came into my life, of course…'

'Trust the Holmes boys to screw your life up, eh?' Mycroft says in his soft voice, and waits for a nudge in the side, which doesn't happen.

'Or save it…' Greg muses and lets his mouth meet Mycroft's once again. For many minutes. Until Greg hears the pling of his phone, deep inside his coat pocket. 'Oh, fuck it... Please don't let this be work…' he groans. With a heavy heart he pulls out his phone and finds the message that was just now sent to him. His shoulders sag.

~ please come home. Need to speak to you – Anna Lestrade