Great thank you to Riverdancer17 for beta-work and Brit-picking.
A/N: I'm sorry for a long wait. We are venturing into angst territory. Also in the next month I'll be leaving for another city for a job. I'll be away for three months, I don't know yet if I will have time to write there or even if I'll have a reliable Internet connection, so, unfortunately, I can't say when the next update will be.
But I am planning on continuing this story. I enjoy writing this AU too much:)
"Is something bothering you?" It was phrased like a question, it sounded like a question but Mycroft knew better than to think of it as such; it was merely a polite way to meddle with his affairs. It was a strategy he was long acquainted with as it was Mummy's favourite. It didn't work well with Sherlock, his younger brother always needed a more direct approach, but it was the perfect strategy to make her older son spill his secrets. Mycroft suspected that Mummy was entirely too proud of mastering those techniques.
"Nothing really," he brushed the fake concern aside, not giving in easily.
"But you look like you have something on your mind."
"I always have something on my mind." Mycroft countered.
The elderly woman smirked. "Oh, did I say something? Sorry, dear, I meant someone."
The temptation to roll his eyes was so big, Mycroft had to take a bite of a chocolate biscuit in order to calm himself.
"That is not the topic I wish to discuss." He replied stiffly.
"So you know exactly who I am talking about." Her tone was even but there was such glee in her eyes Mycroft felt like he might be sick. The situation was a source of amusement to his beloved mother, but to him it only brought distress.
The memory of Gregory Lestrade holding him in an intimate embrace as they danced and danced, swaying among couples around them, too noticeable even in the large crowd of guests, came to his mind unbidden. It was hard to keep his concentration on staying nondescript with the other man's hands so gentle and his voice low and soft whispering in Mycroft's ear. It was beautiful and Mycroft found himself caught in the moment; it would have been perfect if only there wasn't the looming threat of consequences.
Consequences that Mummy seemed to disregard completely. The woman was in no way careless or thoughtless but she firmly believed that feelings should come before cold mind.
"I have some lovely pictures," she informed her son, teasing.
Mycroft's head snapped, eyes narrowed and his gaze troubled. "Pictures?"
"Oh no need to look so terrified, dear." She assured him, which did nothing except maybe make him look even more troubled. "That lovely girl, your PA, made them for me. No one from the press will get them."
Mycroft still didn't look any better so she added. "No one will see them except me. I promise you."
"You can't promise that." Mycroft replied harshly.
"So mistrustful," Mummy rolled her eyes. "You know I'll never let those pictures be leaked to the press, dear." She leaned in her chair, covering his hand with hers. The soothing gesture seemed to finally have some effect on her older son.
"I know," he sighed, defeated. "I'm sorry for making those unreasonable assumptions."
"As you should be." She reproached lightly. "Suspicious of your own mother."
Another apology died at the tip of his tongue as she laughed. "Drink your tea, it will get cold."
Mycroft Holmes, a menacing threat to his country's enemies and the most influential man in the United Kingdom, reached for his china cup obediently.
"Now, calmly, tell me what the issue is." Mummy ordered. "There is this handsome intelligent man, and don't look at me like that, I know exactly what your type is, expressing interest in you. Which is not surprising in the least, I might add. You are what any man would want."
"A calculating old man too engrossed in his work?" Mycroft asked as a joke, but his mother caught the bitterness in his tone.
"You are not an old man," she started with this. "I am old, you are mature."
"That's very helpful, thank you." Mycroft muttered under his breath.
"Your work is important, there is no getting away from that, but it hardly takes that much time as you are always suggesting." She took a dainty seep of her own tea, creating a staged pause in the conversation. "Don't think I don't know about all those lovers your PA is juggling while still being present at your side half the time."
Mycroft would have choked on his own tea had he not been so used to the strange turns conversation with Mummy usually took.
"And you only need to find one lover, I'm sure if it's absolutely necessary she'll give you some helpful pointers."
"Mother, you can't be suggesting what I think…"
"I'm not saying you should take sexual advice from her." Mrs. Holmes beat him to it. Mycroft's blood ran hot at the statement and he felt, or maybe wished, that he could die from mortification at that exact moment. "Just some advice on planning your time."
"Mother, please," Mycroft interjected before she could come up with more embarrassing advices. "This has nothing to do with my situation." Even saying it took an effort.
"He is just a man, like you. The most significant issue is already resolved – it's obvious that you like each other." She shrugged elegantly. "I see no other problems."
"The problem, as you put it, is…" Mycroft trailed away, considering there was only one way to finish that sentence and his mother should know that.
"What is it?"
Which didn't mean that she wasn't going to be difficult about it. There was a sparkle of mirth in her eyes, so much like Sherlock's but with a significant lack of resentment.
"That he is the Prime Minister."
"So what? It's not like his job requires him to take a vow of celibacy."
"Mother," Mycroft groaned, unable to keep up with her anymore. He put down the cup with a satisfying jingling noise, only regretting that it didn't break.
Mrs. Holmes's teasing smile softened. "Prime Ministers are allowed to have personal lives."
"Only they are not personal at all."
"So what?" Mrs. Holmes asked, gently, as she peered at her older son.
"Mother," Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet hers, tired and sad, just to match the tone of his voice. "Gregory is the center of public attention. I cannot join him in that." They were the words he kept repeating again and again in the private of his own thoughts. He wore himself down with his own hands, destroying any hope that dared shine through the walls of reason. "My position is too important to risk it becoming known. Which is inevitable," he raised his voice to speak over a protest she wanted to make. "If we were to become…a couple."
"Darling, don't give up on your happiness just for the job."
"Who says..?" Mycroft shook his head. "I believe I will be able to overcome a simple infatuation on order to stay professional."
Mummy's smile had an edge of sadness to it, which he preferred to ignore. "Last time I was this infatuated I gave that man the most wonderful gift – two beautiful sons."
Mycroft turned away, unable to hold her gaze, and hummed noncommittally as a response. She was looking too much into this, he persuaded himself. She saw something where there was nothing.
And it didn't help that even his inner voice knew that Mummy rarely was wrong, especially when it concerned emotions and feelings.
"I'll leave you to your thoughts, darling." Mummy said softly and, with a kiss to his forehead, left.
Mycroft stared into space, remembering how Gregory's lips once brushed his cheek as the Prime Minister was whispering to him during their dance. It was unintentional, just a brush as they swayed to the side with the music, feather-like and not even intended to be a kiss, but nonetheless…nonetheless…Even such a small thing managed to evoke a hurricane of emotions.
Mycroft knew his face must have flushed an unappealing shade of scarlet at that second, he felt too hot, breathless, suffocating, dizzy but not because of them turning in circles but only because of that small brush of lips to his skin.
Gregory seemed unaffected by it, going on with his whispered story while his hand, splayed on the small of Mycroft's back guided them around the dance floor.
Mycroft had left not long after that, tearing himself away from the other man's arms, claiming he had somewhere else to be – lying without his usual finesse – and running as far away from him as he could. To save his own sanity. To save his own heart. Or was it too late?
Mycroft smirked bitterly, Mummy's not so subtle implications coming to him once again. She believed he must be in love. Acting so irrationally, moping around the place – her words not his – his thoughts completely occupied by one person only.
Mycroft saw the basis for her deductions, but…He wasn't in love with the Prime Minister, was he? That would be news worth a scandal. The only safe way to avoid which would be not to pursue any personal relationship with the man. Sounded rather simple, didn't it? If only Gregory Lestrade agreed with him.