CHAPTER FIVE

A/N All warnings, spoilers etc. in Chapter One. It's getting steamy…

Greg returned to work and, after about an hour, felt like he'd never been away. It seemed the criminal fraternity had been busy in his absence.

He got the lowdown on the active cases from Donovan and Dimmock, the latter handing back the reins with an almost audible sigh of relief. Greg informed them that they would also be investigating Richard Brook and he could see the effort it took for Donovan to stop rolling her eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. Jim Moriarty was real," he stated flatly. "Consulting criminal, just like Sherlock said."

"Based on what?" asked Donovan archly.

"Years and years of knowing Sherlock. Do you honestly think he could have faked being a genius for all that time? No one's that good an actor."

Greg did not like the expression on her face one little bit. She had really hated Sherlock and the thought that she might actually have been wrong about him was obviously causing her pain.

"If you don't like it, put in for a transfer," he snarled. "I'll be happy to sign off on it."

She turned and walked off without a word.

Greg reclaimed his office and sat behind his desk. Someone else had obviously been using it, everything was out of place. Grinning to himself he set about putting it right.

Much later he was deep into a forensics report about what the press would soon dub The Crouch End Butcher when there was a knock on his door and he looked up.

Detective Constable Sean Smith was there, an anxious look on his face.

"I'm taking lunch orders, sir. Can I get you anything?"

Smith was a recent transfer from Vice and Greg didn't know him very well yet. Tall, blond, with intense grey eyes, the man turned heads wherever he went.

"Blimey, is that the time? No thanks, I'll just get some fresh air, I think."

Greg stepped outside and lit a cigarette. As he put his lighter back in his pocket his phone rang.

"Do you know how bad those things are for you?" It was Mycroft.

"You can talk," grumbled Greg. "Where are you?"

"I'll be in St James's Park in ten minutes. Would you like to help me feed the ducks?"

"Yeah," smiled Greg. "See you there."

Greg spotted him immediately. The park wasn't very busy and the tall, well-dressed figure stood out.

Greg was warmed by the genuine pleasure in Mycroft's eyes when he saw him.

"I can't stay long," Greg warned.

"Nor can I," admitted Mycroft. "I thought I'd take a chance to see you. And talk to you. Gregory, I must say something. Please, hear me out."

Uh oh, thought Greg.

"I really want to keep seeing you," Mycroft continued. "Can you promise me you'll be discreet about all this?"

"Discreet? You make it sound like I'm your mistress or something. There's no law against it, Mycroft. I should know."

"Please try to understand. This is vitally important. There are people out there who, if they knew we were a couple, would try and get to me through you. They would hurt you in order to hurt me and I could not bear that, Gregory. I've lost so much recently, if something like that happened to you it would break me. Do you see what I mean?"

That pulled Greg up, chillingly he knew exactly how bad it could be.

"I know what you mean, I do, honestly. When you put it that way, it's not much of an ask, is it?"

"So, you still want us to continue going out?"

"Of course. For a bright bloke, you're awfully thick sometimes. I really like you and I know how to keep my mouth shut."

Mycroft smiled and Greg relaxed. He captured one of Mycroft's hands in his. It felt right so he left it there as they stood at the edge of the lake. The ducks were destined to be disappointed, Greg thought.

"I know you much you like Shakespeare," said Mycroft shyly. "There's an open-air production of A Midsummer Night's Dream on this weekend. I wondered if you'd like to go?"

"I'd love to, "said Greg and Mycroft blushed.

"I'll text you the details. I'm sorry, Gregory. I have to get back."

Greg looked around quickly and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, closed the gap between them, gently brushing his lips against Mycroft's.

"See you at the weekend," he whispered.

The play was everything Time Out had promised it would be. For the couple holding hands discreetly in the back row it was spellbinding but only one was really concentrating on the stage while the other was losing himself in his partner. Moved by the beauty of the language, Greg wiped his eyes several times. Mycroft could gauge Greg's emotional state further by the intensity of the grip on his hand and, when it ended, Greg was one of the first on his feet to applaud.

"That was amazing," Greg enthused later over bucket-sized glasses of wine at a nearby brasserie. Mycroft smiled, pleased.

"You certainly seemed to enjoy it. Not many people cry at Shakespeare."

"Why ever not?" asked Greg defiantly. "If people knew just how beautiful the language is…oh, hell, I'm preaching to the converted."

Mycroft took a hefty slug of wine before admitting, "'The Lives of Others'. It moves me every time I watch it. Beautiful film. And at the end…argh," He ran his fingers through his hair.

"I don't think I've ever seen it," confessed Greg.

"You absolutely must come to my house and watch it," insisted Mycroft. "Sometime soon so I can address this appalling lapse in your education."

"I bet you say that to all the boys," teased Greg. He loved to watch Mycroft blush. "I will though. And soon. I promise."

John had moved out. Now Greg was back at work and he had a new job it seemed like the right time. The hospital had accommodation for him and he was more than happy to take it.

Greg had helped him move in one drizzly Wednesday.

"Not much, is it?" said Greg, casting his eye over what had optimistically been described as a bed-sit. Shoe box, more like, but Greg kept his thoughts to himself.

"It'll do, "said John as he sat on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes.

"If you're sure…" said Greg doubtfully.

"Yeah, I am. So, I'll see you on Friday then? At The Black Dog? First one there gets them in."

"Count on it."

They hugged clumsily and Greg left John to his unpacking.

The next few days and weeks passed for Greg in a daze of work and spending time with Mycroft whenever possible. He had heard the phrase 'pleasantly winging it' before and he thought that summed up their relationship perfectly.

Greg knew he had to be patient, he didn't want to scare Mycroft off by coming on too strong or demanding too much from him too soon but sometimes, God, he could grab the man and screw him into the wall.

And there continued to be so many good times, erasing the memory of the not-so-good which had been interrupted by his work, or Mycroft's, the restaurant where Mycroft had astonished the waiter, and Greg, by conversing in flawless Japanese which had earned them the best table in the place where they had fed each other teriyaki, sipped sake and held hands under the table. Moments like that made it wonderful.

Greg's birthday was looming large and he wasn't looking forward to it until Mycroft surprised him with a pair of tickets for a box at the Albert Hall to hear the War Requiem. Greg knew Mycroft was heading to China the day after his birthday and hadn't expected anything at all. The day came and Greg had been utterly enthralled by it all, even if he had had to hire a dinner jacket for the occasion. They had downed champagne, nibbled canapes and watched the other people thronging the Hall, Mycroft making him laugh by pointing out a few home truths about everyone who passed by them. They were heading for the car park where Mycroft's driver was due to pick them up, Greg having left his car at home.

"I got Donovan to pick up the penguin suit," said Greg. "I told her I had a date."

"You didn't tell her with who?"

"Look, Mycroft. I know your reasons for wanting to keep things as far under the radar as possible and I respect that but Donovan's not stupid. None of them are. They know I'm seeing someone but they don't know who. I'm not going to deny something that's made me so happy."

Mycroft was immediately disarmed.

"I make you happy?" he asked softly. Greg smiled tenderly.

"Of course you do. Ridiculously so."

Suddenly Mycroft was in Greg's arms, easing him up against the wall of the narrow street that ran parallel to the car park

"No cameras," explained Mycroft before kissing Greg hungrily.

Their mouths opened and Greg could taste champagne and the faint tang of cigarette smoke on Mycroft's tongue. He held Mycroft closer as they continued to kiss, savouring the long, lean feeling of him pressed so close. The wall was hard against Greg's back but he didn't object, his hands moving oh so slowly over Mycroft, breaking the kiss, burying his face in Mycroft's neck, hearing his soft moan of pleasure as Greg's questing mouth found a sweet spot.

"Come home with me," Mycroft whispered. "I want this as much as you."

Greg nodded his acquiescence, not sure if he was capable of coherent speech as most of his blood supply appeared to have been diverted below his waist.

Greg's mobile rang and he could have screamed. Mycroft watched him, breathing heavily as he straightened his jacket while Greg answered his phone.

"What! Smith? Some fucker had better be dead, I'm not kidding." Greg closed his eyes. There was nothing like being called in on a triple murder to kill your sex drive stone dead. "I'll be there as soon as I can. It's fine. Bye."

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. At least the bastard had the decency to apologise for spoiling my birthday."

"I understand. That's the price of being involved with a policeman," said Mycroft wryly.

"I'll see you when you get back from China."

Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg goodnight, a chaste kiss but it still had Greg fuming all the way to Brixton in the taxi when he thought about how the night should have ended.

"I'm going to call you Coitus Interruptus," snarled Greg at D.C. Smith who was waiting for him at the crime scene,

"I'm sorry, sir. You were the only ranking officer available. Nice jacket." Greg growled.

"Don't mind me, at least I'm still alive. Which is more than can be said for those poor bastards. Still, it's a shitty way to finish your birthday."

Greg spotted Anderson whose eyes nearly dropped out of their sockets at the sight of Greg in a dinner jacket.

"It's my birthday. I was at a concert. Can we get on?"

It was nearly dawn and Greg was exhausted by the time he made it home. He collapsed across his bed without bothering to undress and was asleep in seconds. He was so sound he missed a very rare text message.

EN ROUTE TO BEIJING. MISSING YOU ALREADY. LOVE M xx

TBC