The 5 Times Greg Caught Mycroft & the 1 Time Mycroft Caught Greg

by: Ismira Daugene

Chapter 4

The name of the café was Şafak. It meant "dawn" in Turkish, which seemed appropriate given the nature of the place. When Mycroft arrived early Wednesday morning, he paused for a moment to admire the modern coffee shoppe that still managed to hold an air of Middle Eastern mysticism despite being in the middle of London. Wooden tables and chairs were scattered around the café along with a few early morning customers, but he was able to spot Greg right away near one of the windows. The silver haired man waved and grinned causing Mycroft to smile a little as he made his way through the maze of tables. "I already ordered for us both," Greg said as Mycroft sat down after hanging his umbrella on the back of the chair. It had been raining on and off all night and into the morning, nothing new for London. "I hope you don't mind." Greg sat with his hands folded in front of him over the sports section of that day's newspaper.

"Not at all, Gregory. You seem to know this place well." Mycroft scooted his chair closer to the table.

Greg smiled and nodded. "I got the house specialty coffee and a sampler plate of their best pastries."

"I'm sure I'll enjoy it if it's everything you say it is." Mycroft smoothed out his suit jacket then folded his hands in front of him on the table as well. "Did you find who poisoned my brother yet?"

"Oh yeah! That butler chap who tried to fake his own death? It was him."

"Indeed?"

"Yeah, turns out he served as butler for quite a few wealthy people in the London area, but they all ended up firing him after a while because they always caught him stealing. Well apparently he got sick of it and decided to change his identity, disguise himself, get re-hired by his old bosses, and start killing them off, stealing 'em blind afterwards. Sherlock apparently got too close to figuring it out when he visited Mr. Whitmoore prior to his death. He took some tea while he interviewed Mr. Whitmoore, which gave our killer the opportunity to poison him."

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted in interest as Greg told the story. "Impressive," he commented. "However I must ask why he faked his own death instead of running after killing Mr. Whitmoore?"

Greg looked at the politician in surprise. "You mean you haven't figured it out?"

Mycroft's lips quirked upwards a tick. "I have," he admitted. He hesitated a moment before saying, "However I enjoy hearing you speak, especially when you're excited about a recently solved case." Greg's eyes widened for a moment in surprise before his mouth stretched wide in a genuine smile. His cheeks even turned a ruddy color for a minute. "Please, indulge me, Inspector," Mycroft waved a hand for him to continue.

Greg's grin stayed in place as he finished the story. "Okay then. Well the guy finally made a mistake. He didn't pay attention to the patrol car routines. He wasn't counting on a patrol showing up so soon. When he heard the sirens, he quickly made up a batch of fake blood. You know… corn syrup and food coloring mostly. We think he was waiting for the gap between when we finish processing the scene and the medical examiner moves in to make a run for it. Might've worked too if you hadn't been there." He leaned forward a bit. "Though I'd like to think I could tell a dead guy from a fake dead guy. So maybe he wouldn't have gotten away after all."

"I have the utmost confidence that you would have noticed eventually had I not been there, Gregory." Mycroft sent the detective a smirk just as their order arrived.

"Oh good! I'm starving!" Greg grinned as a gleaming copper tray was set in front of them holding a steaming carafe of strong Turkish coffee as well as several types of pastries.

"Can I get you anything else, sirs?" the waitress asked.

Greg looked to Mycroft who shook his head. "No, this should do, thanks," he smiled at the young woman.

"I recognize baklava," Mycroft commented pointing towards the walnut flavored phyllo wrapped pastries. "However I'm unfamiliar with the rest."

Greg seemed to straighten as he began pointing out the different options. "This one is called kaymakli kayisi," he pointed at a soft round looking bun that had crushed pistachios covering the top. "It's made with dried apricots, sugar syrup, and stuffed with clotted cream. And these," he pointed to a circular pastry that looked like a mini pie. "These are kunefe. It's a fried cheese pastry made with sugar syrup and phyllo again."

"Interesting," Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"I promise it's better than it sounds," Greg placated. "This one," he pointed to a chocolate layered cake looking pastry. "Is pudingli pasta. It's not really pudding or pasta though. It's cake made from layered cream biscuits and pudding-like filling." He pointed to the last items on the tray, small marble sized, honey colored balls. "And finally these are lokma. They're kind of like donut holes, but not as dense. They've also got more of a citrus flavoring. I think they use lemon peels in them."

Mycroft couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. "I never knew you were so knowledgeable on Turkish pastries."

Greg shrugged, but continued smiling. "My dad owns a café in Paris. I grew up helping out there. Dad's really an amazing chef, and he tried to teach me everything he knew. I loved cooking, but I really excelled at baking. Almost wound up studying to be a professional pastry chef before I changed my mind."

"You grew up in Paris, but you have no trace of an accent?" Mycroft noted as he filled a small plate with one of everything.

"Yeah, mom's side is from London here. My brother, sister, and I spent summers with Grandpa and Grandma Irving. The whole family actually lived here for a few years though when I was a teen. That's when I started to lose my accent."

"Mmm," Mycroft groaned. "This is truly amazing," he pointed his fork toward the kunefe."

"I told you so," Greg grinned.

Mycroft returned the grin and continued the conversation. "What made you decide to be a policeman? Seems a stretch from baker?"

Greg frowned as he chewed a bite of pudingli pasta. "There was a family that lived down the block from us when we lived here in London. They had a break-in one night. The dad was ex-military and had been allowed to keep his service weapon after retirement. Well the thief got a hold of the gun before Mr. Kendall could. Both Mr. Kendall and their son Louis, who I was friends with, were shot. Louis didn't make it." Greg paused for a moment. He took a deep breath then continued. "The guy was never caught. It was what made me want to help people… made me want to become a Detective Inspector."

"I'm sorry about your friend, Gregory," Mycroft started to reach across the table, but stopped and withdrew his hand, not sure if it was what Greg wanted right then.

However Greg saw the movement and smiled a little as he reached the remaining distance and gripped Mycroft's hand. "Thanks," he intoned quietly. "I haven't told many people that story. It's the kind of thing that sticks with ya no matter how many years have passed." Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand before they both retracted their arms to continue eating their pastries. They sat in companionable silence for a while, eating, drinking, and listening to the soft Turkish music playing overhead. Mycroft usually felt awkward when silence fell over a conversation, but with Gregory (like everything else about the man) it was different.

After they'd both eaten their fill of sugary confections, Gregory folded his hands around his cup of coffee and blew on the steaming bitter black liquid. "Now that I've spilled my childhood all over, what about you?" he asked. "Unless you don't want to, no pressure," he added quickly.

Mycroft smiled after taking a sip of his own coffee. "No, a measure of equivalent exchange is required here. Like yourself, half of my family is in France. Though for me, it's my mother's side. The Renaud's live just outside Lyon. Grandmaman and Grandpère Renaud have a large country estate to the north east of the city. Sherlock and I spent much of our childhood there." He smiled fondly at the memories of the French countryside. "Though we both went to school here England. Our father passed away from stroke when I was fourteen and Sherlock only seven. Mummy took it rather hard and closed herself off from the world for a long time. I took care of Sherlock as best I could, but we spent a few years with Grandfather and Grandmother Holmes."

"Wow, I didn't know your father passed so young," Greg frowned sympathetically. "It would explain Sherlock's behavior a bit though," he commented thoughtfully.

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, he resented me taking father's place, but there was no one else to do it aside from the Holmes family's staff. Grandfather Holmes was always away in London managing his political career, and Grandmother Holmes was a rather disagreeable old woman who blamed our mother for our father's early death. She never gave any reasoning for why she thought so, but was always quite frigid towards our mother."

He took another sip of coffee as he organized his thoughts. "It was part of the reason I was so eager to leave for university. I left Sherlock at the Holmes family estate about a year and a half after father's death and never looked back. Something I regret deeply now."

Greg studied the elder Holmes brother for a moment and frowned. "You blame yourself for his drug addiction, don't you?"

"Wouldn't you? I left him when he needed me the most."

This time Greg initiated contact, reaching across the table and gripping Mycroft's wrist. "You did what you had to do. It isn't your fault that Sherlock turned to drugs to solve his problems. You can't be responsible for other's actions, Myc."

Mycroft let out a sigh and turned his hand palm up so that they were holding hands again. He squeezed the tan fingers gripping his tightly. "Thank you, Gregory, but I'm afraid we'll have to agree to disagree."

Greg frowned, but didn't push the issue. Instead he kept hold of Mycroft's hand across the small table, maintaining contact. The waitress chose that time to come back to their table, and they both looked up as she seemed to notice the somber air and hesitantly asked, "Can I get you anything, sirs?"

"A to-go box for these, maybe?" Greg answered pointing to the leftover pastries.

"Sure!" she quickly walked back behind the counter and returned with a box for them along with their bill.

Greg snatched up the ticket before Mycroft could. "My treat," he smiled, and fished out his wallet. They paid at the counter, and walked out of the café together. Greg paused though when they reached the sidewalk where they would part ways. "Mycroft," he said softly. He was looking into the other man's eyes, a warm small smile on his face. "Would you mind if I kissed you?" he asked.

Mycroft widened his eyes in surprise. He'd never been asked permission to be kissed. However he found he appreciated it and gave a small nod along with a quiet, "Yes."

Greg reached up to softly touch his lips to Mycroft's. The Detective Inspector was only a few inches shorter, but Mycroft still found he enjoyed the feeling of Greg close to him as he reached up to kiss him. One of Greg's hands wrapped around and pressed against Mycroft's back to steady them both as Mycroft's hand rested on Greg's hip. Greg's rough chapped lips pressed warmly against Mycroft's smoother lips, and was just pulling away when the door to the café opened suddenly behind Mycroft. A delivery boy rushed out and ran smack into Mycroft's back, pushing him into Greg's arms. His face went forward and smooshed into where Greg's neck and shoulder met, a woodsy musk scent filling his nostrils. The coffee the delivery boy had been carrying went flying and half of it landed on the two, staining both of their suits with the hot dark liquid. Luckily the material was thick enough that it kept the scalding liquid from burning them, but they were both still covered in coffee.

"Aman Tanrım! (Oh my God!)" the Turkish boy exclaimed. "I'm so sorry, sirs! So sorry! Please! Let me help!" he pulled a wad of napkins from a bag over his shoulder and began trying to pat them down.

Mycroft was still tucked against Greg as he straigtened and brushed the young Turkish boy away. "It's fine, it was an accident," he said in a voice that was clearly annoyed, but not accusatory.

"Oh but I am so sorry!" the boy kept saying. "I can give you money for dry cleaning?"

"No, that's fine," Greg declared. "Just watch your step next time, eh?"

The boy looked like he wanted to protest, but the two men started to walk off. It wasn't until they reached Mycroft's black sedan that he noticed Greg still had his arm around Mycroft's waist, hand pressed against his lower back still. "Can I give you a lift?" he asked.

Greg shook his head. "Nah, I've got my car around the corner. Gonna run home and wash up quick before going into work."

Mycroft nodded. "Despite the rather unfortunate incident towards the end, I rather enjoyed spending time with you this morning, Gregory."

Greg grinned. "Me too, Myc."

"However you were wrong," Mycroft grinned as well.

Greg frowned and furrowed his eyebrows. "About what?"

"You said we would be doing something where you wouldn't need to catch me," he smiled and looked at Greg pointedly.

"HA HA!" Greg burst out laughing. "That's right, I did say that! Well that didn't work."

"Indeed," Mycroft chuckled.

"Guess we'll just have to keep trying until we find something that works, eh?"

"As I recall, you don't mind catching me," Mycroft glanced down to the arm still around his waist. "I'm not sure if I can trust you to make logical decisions in this matter as you seem to enjoy the outcomes."

Greg laughed again and pulled Mycroft closer in a one-armed hug before letting go. "Alright! Alright! You pick next time!"

Mycroft smiled and felt his cheeks grow hot as he considered the possibilities. He was pretty sure he knew what they would be doing next, but wanted to keep it a secret from Greg as he would most likely protest the amount of money he'd be spending on him. "Deal," he said. "Now, we'd best be off if we want to clean up and change before going into the office."

Greg nodded and reached up to peck Mycroft on the cheek quickly. "Text me later," he said as he started to walk away.

Mycroft smiled and nodded, watching the silver haired detective turn the corner before getting in his own vehicle. "Home, please, Lewiston," he orded.

"Yes, sir," Lewiston said, a small grin visible on his face.

Author's Note: Hey everyone! Told ya this would be a longer chapter! Like I said, this is probably my favorite chapter. The research I got to do into Turkish desserts was amazing and drool worthy! I have a friend who is from Turkey and she assures me that all of these pastries are amazing!

So yeah, just letting you know that the next chapter will be up this Monday. I'll be going to my local county fair and working over the weekend and won't have time to upload then. Also, my last year of university starts on Monday! But I'll get the chapter up at some point for you lovely readers!

Thanks for reading! Love ya!