The Cae of the Cuddle Chapter 13

Dear All, thank you for all yoru lovely reviews, only 3 more at the time of writing and I will have made a whole century! Yay! I'm having terrible trouble with my fanfic account, so I may not be able to see your alerts or get yoru emails at present. Please bear with me until we get this sorted out. In the meantime, next few chapters are Mystradian moments, hope you enjoy a little time off...

The Ram had the advantage of being 10 minutes walk from Greg's flat, which meant he could park his car outside and get wasted, and not have to worry about a cab fare home. That was one of the reasons he liked it. It did good beer too. But best of all, it didn't have a jukebox.

Mycroft was sitting in a bay that was just far enough away from the door to be out of the draft when it opened, but close enough to be visible when Greg came in, with the attendant drizzle and flutter of dead leaves. Mycroft smiled and got up, holding out a hand to be shaken genially. How straight of him, Greg thought. But then the Ram was a very straight pub – Greg had the sense not to frequent gay pubs because he knew all too well what went on there, and he had to have some time off duty, after all.

'What'll you have?' Greg asked, fishing for his wallet.

'Oh, no, my round.'

'Come on Mycroft, it was my invitation.'

'I'll provide the beer and you provide the shoulder to cry on, wasn't that the premise?'

'You've got me there.' Greg laughed awkwardly. 'I'll have a pint of Jennings, please.'

'Your wish is my command.'

He watched as Mycroft walked to the bar, groping in his trouser pocket for change. This meant that the back vent of his jacket was snagged up, revealing an ample and extremely attractive backside. Greg suddenly felt a bit flustered and sat down on the plush covered bench seat with a thump.

What the fuck am I doing? I'm too old for this shit!

Mycroft came back from the bar with two dark pints, and settled himself beside Greg. They raised their glasses and drank. Greg made his habitual face after his first mouthful – bared teeth, lips rolled back, the classic grimace of a man who has really needed a pint for the last five hours. Then he laughed at Mycroft's response.

'Never had Jennings before?'

'Erm,' said Mycroft, trying hard to suppress the automatic twist in his lips. His eyes were watering. 'Salty.'

'Let me get you something else.'

'No, no!' Mycroft reached out and touched Greg's forearm as he made to get up. 'Really, it's an acquired taste, obviously. I shall make efforts to acquire it.'

Greg laughed. 'An acquired taste!'

'Yes. Like olives and buggery. Didn't somebody say that once?'

Greg could feel his cheeks going pink again.

'So, this is your regular habitat,' Mycroft said, looking around. The Ram was one of those London pubs that glitters with etched glass and polished brass.

'They keep a good pint, and it's close to home.' Greg took another swig. 'And there's no piped music.'

'Ah, yes. A definite advantage.' Mycroft sighed and smiled genially. 'Before we go any further I should like to thank you –'

'Look, it was no trouble to drive you home the other night. It's not like I was going to leave you there in that state.'

'Not for that. Well, not just for that. You have been a loyal and supportive friend to my brother through many difficult times. He is headstrong, rude and infuriating, and he doesn't deserve you. I am grateful that you have been so kind to him.'

'Contrary to popular opinion,' Greg pointed out, 'Sherlock is a good man. Infuriating, yes, I'll grant you that. But I like him. I count myself lucky to have him as a friend, and I'll tell him that to his face.'

'Yes. I know you would. Which is what makes you such an extraordinary man.' Mycroft's fond smile made Greg glow.

'Mycroft, why did you come?'

'Because you asked me.'

'Come on.'

Mycroft slurped at his pint again, and his nostrils flared with distaste. 'It's no good,' he said. 'I really think this is a taste I shall never acquire.'

'We all have our limits.'

'Yes. Exactly.' The elder Holmes fixes the inspector with his piercing stare. 'I think I have reached mine. With the beer and with life.'

A weighted silence hung between them.

The Mycroft sat back and crossed his legs with a languid style that recalled Sherlock. They were so similar sometimes. The policeman leant forward on his forearms, looked at the bubbles clinging to the meniscus of his beer, and sighed.

'This is insane. I mean, you and me?'

'Why?'

'Well, you're so bloody posh you were practically born with a silver spoon up your arse, and I'm just this scruffy oik from Chingford.'

'Then Chingford finally has something to recommend it.'

'We have nothing in common.'

'How do you know? You hardly even know me.'

'Isn't that the point? I mean, I don't know you at all, and you probably know everything about me that there is to know.'

'Small facts. They paint a picture but it is hardly a portrait of the complete man. If you want to know me, ask me something. I assure you I will tell you everything I can. Everything the Official Secrets Act doesn't cover, anyway.'

'Yeah, right!' Greg had little faith in Mycroft's ability to give him the truth about himself. Looking at that suave face, he wondered how long it had taken him to develop such an inscrutable expression. Probably born with it, he supposed.

'I mean it. Anything you like. Ask.'

'Okay, when did you first realise you were gay?'

Mycroft beamed. 'That's what I like about you, Greg. You cut straight to the chase.'

'Are you going to tell me?'

'When I went up to Eton. I was eleven. Of course, I didn't know what it was then. All I knew was that I as surrounded by these beautiful, angelic creatures and things were happening to my body that drove me wild with ecstasy. I wanked every night for my entire first year!' He chuckled softly to himself, recalling the memory. Then sighed and raised his eyes to meet Greg's, and continued. 'In my second year, I fagged for a nice boy from Buckinghamshire. He was kind to me. He explained everything, took me under his wing somewhat, although he wasn't of my persuasion. But sympathetic, if you know what I mean. I think he's the Bishop of Leicester now.'

'You make it sound so easy.'

'I suppose it was for me. I had my first affair with a boy in my dorm when I was thirteen. It was just a phase for him, but for me it was love.' He shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture for a man so sure of himself as Mycroft. 'He's chairman of a FTSE 100 corporation now, married with three kids. I doubt he allows himself to remember what he did with me.'

'And after that?' Greg found he was fascinated.

'Oh, you know, the usual. I fell in love repeatedly at Cambridge. I was very romantic then, inclined to 'love not wisely but too well', as Shakespeare put it. I bought a boy home once, the Easter after, well, you know. Mummy told me it was a phase I had better grow out of. I imagine a psychiatrist would read all sorts of damning things into my relationship with my parents, losing my father so young, and having so difficult a mother, and so on. Anyway, when I went down, I joined the Service and after that, well, I hardly had time for relationships.'

Greg nodded. He knew how that felt.

'What about you?' Mycroft's deep blue eyes fixed on him.

Greg took another draught from his pint. 'You know I was married? Yes, well, I think I was always trying to escape the truth. It's hard to be different when you come from my kind of background. It's hardly 'Brideshead'. Judy and I got married and had kids because that was what you did. After Matthew, our second, arrived, our sex life pretty much died. She had an affair, and frankly I didn't blame her. By then, I knew I couldn't escape who I was.' Now it was Greg's turn to shrug. 'I ran around for a bit, after the divorce, tasted the scene. You know. Then work took over. Since then, there hasn't really been time.'

He sat back, and looked around the pub at the other punters. A group of middle aged women were laughing together over what looked like a row of vodka and tonics. A couple of blokes were sitting on bar stools, talking to the bar maid. Some lads in suits had obviously just come out of work. They looked tired and strung out, making taut jokes and gripping their glasses with white knuckles.

'You know,' Mycroft conjectured suddenly. 'One of the things I really like about the lifestyle I've chosen is that you don't have to bankrupt yourself buying candlelit dinners for two in order to establish whether you want to sleep with someone or not.'

Greg stared at him agog.

'Do I have to make myself a little clearer?'

'No, I'm reading you loud and clear,' Greg wheezed.

'So?' Mycroft jutted out his jaw inquisitively. 'Your place or mine?'

'Er-' Greg considered the state of his flat. He hadn't been expecting a visitor, so he'd left it in its normal chaos. 'Probably better at yours.'

Outside a sleek black Mercedes limousine was waiting for them. Mycroft opened the door for Lestrade.

'Look, are you sure about this?' he asked the spy.

'Get in, darling,' Mycroft told him with a lavicious smile.

Tomorrow, a Mystradian seduction...