Leaving 221B with Sherlock soundly asleep inside, Greg pulled his phone from his pocket before looking for a taxi.
He scrolled to Mycroft's number and typed in a message.
Sherlock's sleeping. Can we talk? - Greg
Almost as though Mycroft had been anticipating the contact, Greg's phone instantly rang.
"Gregory," Mycroft began, "I shall send a car for you at once."
"Thanks, Mycroft." Greg sighed. He wasn't too keen on being whisked away in one of Mycroft's black town cars but at least he had been forewarned.
Minutes later, the blacked-out vehicle pulled up alongside 221B and Greg climbed in, surprised to find "Anthea" (Greg assumed that was still her name) already in the back seat.
"Good Evening, Detective Inspector." Anthea spoke, not taking her eyes from her phone.
"Evening." Greg replied. "Where are we going?"
Anthea broke form and looked up, smiling.
"Mr Holmes has requested that you meet him at his home." she responded calmly, as if this was an every day occurrence.
Mycroft's house. Greg hadn't expected that at all. He wondered what kind of house somebody like Mycroft Holmes lived in. No doubt something ostentatious and extravagant. Something as immaculate and impeccably well-kept as the man himself, he supposed. A smile developed as Greg realised he was thinking fondly of the elder Holmes. Nervously, he glanced up to check that Anthea wasn't watching him. She didn't appear to be paying him any attention although he couldn't help noticing the small smirk on her lips.
The town car slowed, stopping outside a tall white building. Greg climbed out noting that, even in the darkness, the building appeared to be all tall windows and columns.
Anthea nodded a wordless farewell, and Greg approached the large arched door. He had barely reached the front step when the door opened and, dressed in casual blue slacks and a pale shirt, rolled up to the elbows, Mycroft Holmes appeared.
At least, Greg was fairly certain it was Mycroft Holmes. Without the trademark 3-piece suit and tie, he barely recognised the man, but what didn't go unnoticed was the way his own stomach flipped at the sight of Mycroft's casual and genuinely welcoming smile.
"Welcome, Gregory." Mycroft swept an arm aside, beckoning in the detective. "May I offer you a drink? Tea? Coffee? Something... stronger?"
Greg passed into a large hallway, resisting the urge to comment on the sheer size of the hall. "You don't have staff for this sort of thing?" he quipped, chuckling. "Answering your own door? Isn't that a bit risky for the British Government?"
Mycroft smiled, closing the front door and leading Greg into a large living room. "My security detail is discreetly positioned, Detective Inspector." he replied. "I do not require in-house personnel. Drink?" he offered, crossing to a large, dark oak drinks cabinet. "I have a rather good Scotch that was gifted to me by the Prime Minister."
Greg nodded, seating himself in one of the two expensive-looking chairs placed atmospherically on either side of the fireplace. "Please. I could use a stiff drink actually."
He really could. His nerves had been on edge before he visited Sherlock and the subsequent trip to Mycroft's had only raised his anxiety levels even higher. Although, he had to admit to himself, the reasons for his peaked adrenaline right now had much less to do with worry and more to do with being in Mycroft's presence.
Mycroft broke him out of his reverie as he passed him an expensive crystal tumbler of Scotch. "You spoke with my brother?" he asked, taking the chair opposite Greg's.
Greg took a large gulp of the smooth amber liquid, closing his eyes briefly as a soft warmth spread through him.
Opening his eyes again, he nodded. "I did. He's..." Greg hesitated, unsure how much detail to go into with the man's brother "... he's OK."
Cop out, Greg , he thought. He'd have to tell Mycroft something, he just needed to gather his thoughts and figure out what. Maybe Mycroft would understand.
"Mycroft, I know you and your brother aren't exactly close. It's difficult to know exactly what to tell you without breaking his confidence."
The elder Holmes nodded. He completely understood Greg's reluctance. Sherlock would probably be unimpressed with the idea of Mycroft knowing his business but this, whatever it was, was serious. If he was having problems, back to taking drugs, if he was suffering... Mycroft closed his eyes at the thought of losing his brother. He'd been too close to it too often.
"I am sure that my brother appreciates your friendship, Gregory." he said, opening his eyes to show only calm and sophistication, despite feeling anything but calm inside. "However," he continued, "if there is anything that I should know. Any way that I can be of assistance?" Greg could see the worry all over Mycroft now. His face; his body; his very being vibrated with the very real concern he clearly had for his brother.
Greg took another drink and stood, placing his glass down on the mantelpiece. As he spoke, he made sure to directly face Mycroft, opening himself up to the man.
"Sherlock is in love with John."
Subtle, Greg, he thought, but he had just needed to get it out and beating about the bush really wouldn't help matters.
Mycroft said nothing.
For a long moment, he just sat and stared.
His breathing was slow and steady and Greg could see the man swallow hard before he took another drink and stood.
He approached Greg at the fireplace and, placing his own drink alongside the detective's, turned to face him.
Greg looked into the eyes of his friend's brother; the government employee; this man; and felt his throat go dry as Mycroft Holmes took one of his hands, slowly stroking a thumb across his knuckles.
"Please just be there for him, Gregory." Mycroft pleaded, his eyes dropping to their point of contact. "My brother's experience in this area is..." Greg saw Mycroft stall and almost felt the man tremble through their joined hands. "He hasn't had any good experiences, Gregory."
Greg wondered what exactly Mycroft meant by that. Not good experiences? Did that mean that Sherlock had past bad experiences then? He contemplated asking but he was too completely distracted by the feel of Mycroft's thumb smoothing repeatedly across the back of his hand.
"Mycroft..." he stuttered, his voice harsh and hesitant, "... I will always be here for your brother, if he needs me."
Mycroft nodded, lifting his eyes to meet the detective's, seeing blown pupils reflecting back the desire he himself strongly felt.
"Thank you, Gregory." he replied, before taking another shaky breath. "Would you also considering being here for me?"