When Greg returned from Rugby practice he was a little surprised to find the door to his room ajar. Mycroft was still at the hospital. He would be there for the rest of the week. They were worried about internal injuries, or at least that was what Matron had said. Greg tensed. He knew he'd locked his door, which meant someone else had broken into his room. And he had a shrewd idea who it might be. He'd been waiting for it. Greg held his muddy Rugby boots by their laces and pushed the door open.
"Hello! You must be Gregory." The man sat at Mycroft's desk was nearly as tall as Greg seated and so wide that he seemed to fill the whole room. He held out a large hand. "Aloysius Holmes, Mycroft and Sherlock's Great Uncle."
"Hello?" Greg was feeling a little foolish, covered in mud and brandishing his boots like a weapon. He was also feeling slightly underdressed for the occasion as the huge man's silver eyes flicked him up and down. "Sorry. I've just been at Rugby practice."
"Oh yes. Mycroft did mention you were something of a sportsman." There was a twinkle in the man's eyes as he said it. "Why don't you go and wash all that mud off and then we can have a little chat?"
"Yes." Greg found himself agreeing, partly out of relief that he hadn't found his room full of James Moriarty's gang, partly because the man currently occupying most of the spare space in his room was like an older, less awkward version of Mycroft.
Greg showered quickly, trying very hard to put the quite monumentally inappropriate thoughts he was having out of his head long enough to answer some more pressing questions. Such as: Why was Mycroft's Great Uncle at the School and not his parents? What was he doing in Greg's room? What exactly had Mycroft been telling his family about Greg? Was that what Mycroft would look like in forty years time?
Greg switched off the shower and towelled himself dry, dressed in clean uniform and hurried back to his room. Aloysius Holmes was casually turning the pages of a book on international relations when Greg returned. He flashed a broad smile at Greg and stood. He towered over Greg, even taller than his Great-Nephew, the exquisite cut of his pale grey suit making him seem even more imposing.
"Well Gregory. May I call you Gregory?" Greg nodded. "Perhaps we could go somewhere a little less, academic? For tea and cakes perhaps?"
"Erm, well..." Greg wasn't quite sure what to say.
"It perfectly all right I have asked your Housemaster's permission so you won't get in trouble."
"Thank you Sir."
"Oh please, call me Uncle Aloysius." He smiled at Greg and moved towards the door, brushing past Greg as he did so. Greg was hit by the scent of expensive cologne and before he could help himself had taken a deep breath. He closed his eyes and the image of Mycroft, or perhaps Mycroft's Uncle, naked, flashed briefly before his eyes. What was wrong with him? Greg reached for his blazer and was suddenly aware he was under the intense silver gaze. He blushed. He couldn't help it.
Aloysius Holmes raised one white eyebrow and smiled.
"I think you might be a little young for me Gregory. And besides Mycroft would be terribly upset, he's become quite enamoured of you in such a short time." He moved with surprising ease and grace for such a large man and was halfway up the corridor by the time Greg had realised what he'd just said.