Chapter Text
"We were not lovers, we were love."
- Jeanette Winterson
(2 months later)
April
The sun had barely disappeared behind the rooftops of the city when the familiar knocking echoed in the small flat. Greg shot up from where he'd sat perched on the bed, not minding the loose sheets that escaped his latest case files. They could wait, he decided, while that gorgeous person standing on the other side of the door most certainly couldn't. Or at least, Greg didn't want to wait even a second longer. Had he not caught his right foot on the corner of the carpet gracing the floor of the hallway, he might just have succeeded.
When Greg finally opened the door, silver hair dishevelled but with a huge grin on his face, he was met by Mycroft's bemused and slightly concerned face. He had without a doubt heard the incident. Trying not to blush, Greg studied the face he hadn't seen for far too long and was surprised to find worried lines creasing Mycroft's forehead. Or was it uncertainty? Greg wasn't sure, since Mycroft's face was still partly hidden by the hood of his unostentatious coat he wore to travel unnoticed.
Deciding to explore that later, Greg grabbed hold of Mycroft's hand and pulled him into the flat. The door had barely swung close before he welcomed his lover with an enthusiastic embrace and a deep kiss. They hadn't seen each other for nearly two months, with Mycroft out in the country and Greg caught up in a string of murders, and both were more than relieved their parting was finally over. The world was too cold, the people too lifeless and their lives too loveless without the other's presence.
Revelling in the warmth and solidarity of Greg’s body pressed against his, Mycroft could feel the strain of the past weeks fall away, the tension in his shoulders easing. Drawing back slightly without letting go, he slipped out of his coat and let it fall to the floor, before resuming their kiss. It deepened quickly, picking up in intensity as Mycroft buried his hands in Greg's silver hair and shuddered at his lover's equally exploring hands.
As soon as they pulled apart for air, Greg began planting soft kisses against Mycroft's skin, moving from his neck up to his ear. Eyes fluttering closed, Mycroft only clung tighter.
“God, I have missed you so much...”
“I know," Greg whimpered. With his nose buried in Mycroft's hair, he nuzzled his neck and drew in a shaky breath. "Me too."
Without parting, they slowly stumbled backwards through the door into the bedroom that also served as living room, hands roaming freely now. Mycroft's jacket was first to go, closely followed by his vest, which got acquainted with Greg's shirt soon after. When Greg's legs collided with the hard wood of the bed, he blindly reached behind him to brush the rest of the files aside, sending papers flying everywhere. Not that they paid it much attention.
That was, until a rather insistent rumble disrupted them and they both froze. From where he was lying underneath Mycroft, Greg gave him a confused look and to his great delight, the other man blushed. What a lovely shade of red.
"My apologies, I came here directly upon returning to London."
Greg laughed and pressed a quick kiss to Mycroft's nose before his eyes widened in amazement. "You skipped dinner at your home to come here earlier? Just to see me?"
"Of course."
It might not have been such a big thing if Mycroft were anyone else, but the food served at the Holmes mansion was bloody fantastic. And Mycroft had just returned from a very tiring journey.
"How noble, I feel flattered. However, I have plans for you tonight, for which strength is apparently essential. Thus, with your agreement, I will prepare a meal,” Greg said cheerfully and sat back up.
"Gregory, please, you need not bother yourself."
"Hush, it is my pleasure. Not going to cook though, your grace must make due with simple bread."
Before Mycroft could disagree further, Greg had sauntered past the two armchairs facing the fireplace and disappeared through the door to the small kitchen, picking his shirt up in the process. Alone, Mycroft took a closer look around the room. The heavy wooden wardrobe still stood at the end of the bed, covering most of the wall to the right of the door leading to the entrance hall. The fireplace to his left hadn't changed either, but Gregory's comfortable armchair had gained a companion. Although not new, the slightly larger, mismatched second armchair looked less worn. Gregory must have purchased it sometime during the two months of his absence, quite possibly to enable both of them to enjoy the fire without the brick wall digging into their backs when sitting on the bed.
Touched, Mycroft moved to join Gregory in the kitchen. Most of the space was taken up by a long wooden counter, cluttered with all sorts of utensils and an assortment of pans and pots hanging on the wall. Greg took a look into the metal pot on the iron cooker, frowned and instead opened the cupboard in search for the promised bread. Deciding to make himself useful, Mycroft took two plates from the shelf and set the square kitchen table.
They ate in relative silence, feet touching under the table, simply enjoying the peaceful quietness. There'd still be enough time to catch up later. For now they took their time studying each other, taking in every change they'd missed during the last two months and relishing the other's presence.
The lines under Gregory's eyes had deepened, Mycroft noted, no doubt due to little sleep and endless nights spent hunched over paperwork or roaming the dark, rainy London streets. His hair had gained a few more silver strands, just enough for him to notice after two months apart. He had ink on his right thumb and a faint smudge behind his ear where an itch had caused him to lay down the pen. Gregory's face, his body language, the soft look in his brown eyes resolved something in Mycroft, a hard knot that had been ever present since the day of his departure, while reminding him why he was here. Gregory felt so familiar, so reliable, Mycroft was torn between the urge to laugh, scream or cry. Instead, he just watched, and put off the inevitable for just a bit longer.
Greg, too, let his gaze absorb every little detail and took note of the wrinkles on Mycroft's forehead that had been overshadowed by his cloak earlier. Mycroft had been worried and still was, if Greg didn't misread the look in his eyes. And there was just a hint of sadness there as well when Mycroft thought Greg wasn't looking. Or maybe regret, Greg wasn't sure. But then again, Mycroft was nothing if not a master of his body and what it expressed. Not so much around Greg, more by choice than inability, as an expression of his trust. That Mycroft felt it necessary to hide it now was unsettling, but Greg decided to push it to the back of his mind. Mycroft would confide in him when he was ready.
Satisfied by the simple meal Greg had prepared, they soon relocated to the living room, where the fireplace crackled welcomingly. They'd pushed the two armchairs together, enabling Greg to lean on to Mycroft without the armrest digging too uncomfortably into his side. A blanket over their legs, feet drawn up under the cover, they watched the flames dance, casting shadows on the wall. It wasn't exactly a chilly night, but both men's attire was slightly too dressed down for the middle of May. Besides, it was undeniably romantic.
With half-lidded eyes and head resting on Mycroft's shoulder, Greg absently traced the ornamentation of the other man's white dress shirt. He could feel the faint pulsating of the younger man's heartbeat under his fingers, accompanied by the slow and gentle rise and fall of his chest. Letting his fingers travel over Mycroft’s stomach, up to his chest and down his arms, Greg sighed softly. He'd missed the solid warmth of Mycroft's body. It never failed to ground him when the world span too fast and he was close to losing his grip.
In a sudden rush of need, Greg clutched the fabric of Mycroft's shirt in his hand, as if fearing it might not be real at all or disappear any moment.
"I am deeply sorry that I left with nothing but a letter to explain my absence," Mycroft apologised quietly, having noted the motion.
"Must have been really important, since you have been gone for longer than anticipated," Greg said, playful reproach in his voice. Mycroft leaving the city wasn't uncommon, but it was true they'd never gone without seeing each other for such a long time. Greg understood, though, and would never hold it against him. Nevertheless, that didn't keep him from missing the man and worrying about his well-being. Only Sherlock's brief mentions of his brother – coloured with insults as they were – had kept his mind at ease. Or at least it had helped ease his fears, while his longing only increased.
Mycroft stiffened immediately. A dry "Quite" was all he said, before pulling back his arm from where it had rested around Greg's shoulder.
Bewildered, Greg looked up, not understanding the other man's reaction. Mycroft's normally immaculate hair was tousled from when Greg had run his hand through earlier, but his face was cold. The mask Greg hated so much keeping him out. Only with all of his willpower, Greg managed to refrain from reaching out to smooth the lines on his lover's beautiful face, and instead sat up straight.
"If you cannot talk about it, I understand. I know your work is significant and secret. Just..." Greg sighed, defeated.
"That is not the problem. I do trust you," Mycroft mumbled quietly, not meeting his gaze. This was it, the very moment he'd dreaded and avoided for far too long tonight. It was time.
"The day before my departure,” Mycroft began, “a letter arrived demanding my father and I travel to Edinburgh as soon as possible. It did not provide detailed information concerning the reason, but I was able to guess what would await me. I fear my concerns were confirmed."
Mycroft briefly closed his eyes, before taking a deep breath and turning to Gregory. Blue eyes met brown, the love he saw reflected giving him the strength to continue.
"You realise that the position of Queen or King is more a representing position than one of power, yes?"
Greg frowned. "You mean, the true decisions are made by someone else?"
"Exactly. Thereby, politics cannot be actively influenced by people of wealth or of malicious intention, for the true ruler is known to only a handful of people."
"And you are one of them." Greg's fingers found Mycroft's on the armrest and let them draw calming patterns on his lover's hand.
"Moreover, I am related to them. My uncle has been assigned said duties by his father, who has in turn been trained by his own father."
A dark premonition made Greg shudder and his heart rate increased in speed. "That does not explain why you have been to Edinburgh."
Mycroft nodded, lips pressed together as if trying to hold back what he so desperately wanted to say. Eventually, he turned his hands and laced his fingers with those of his lover. When he spoke, his words were carefully chosen.
"Gregory, you must understand that my uncle has been diagnosed infertile at a very young age and therefore, does not have an heir." His gaze dropped to their hands, unable to watch while understanding slowly darkened Gregory's eyes. "From the day I was born,” Mycroft continued, “it was clear that I would one day follow in his footsteps. My entire childhood has been strictly organised and designed to prepare me for that day, and I have waited ever since I have come off age."
"And that day...” Greg swallowed past the lump in his throat. “It arrived in Edinburgh, did it not?"
Mycroft nodded mutely. "My uncle was on a business trip when his heart failed him. He is alive, but it has become clear that he will not be able to fulfil his duties much longer."
"So you were summoned to be appointed as his successor."
Gaze still focused on their joined hands, Mycroft sighed, defeated. "Not yet, but I expect to hear from the Queen by the end of next month," he admitted and gripped Gregory's hands tighter.
Barely a month, that's all they had left. About 30 days, if they were lucky. With the knowledge every meeting could be their last constantly lingering at the back of their minds. Pervading, hurting. Slow and painful. How could he do that to Gregory - the man he loved above anyone else - when it had been his burden to carry from the very beginning? How could he have let this relationship flourish when he knew from the start how it would inevitably end?
Unaware of those thoughts raging through his lover's head, Greg just looked at Mycroft, eyes wide as he tried to process what had just been said. A shadow fell upon his eyes, hurt and denial clear and sharp, as Greg realised. When he spoke, face hard, his voice was cold and reserved. "Do you mean to end our association?"
Unable to hold his gaze, Mycroft didn't look up, too afraid to face the emotions in Gregory's eyes. "As I said, it is a position of incredible power and dangerous to obtain and execute," he explained slowly, voice quiet and hesitant, "therefore, a group of guards will be appointed with my protection night and day, and –"
"Mycroft,” Gregory cut him off, this time louder and with a hint of anger. “Have you come here tonight with the intention to end our relationship?!"
The worry lines, the sadness in his eyes, it all made sense now. When Mycroft just continued to stare at their interlaced fingers, Greg yanked his own free. Mycroft's hands were too warm, too familiar, for him to think clearly. The last time they'd met, those hands had held him close and guided him as they danced without music. Sock-clad feet on thick carpet and Mycroft's comforting warmth surrounding him.
They hadn't had enough time. It didn't seem fair. Why couldn't they have more time?
Mycroft looked up then, eyes pleading. "I fear there is no alternative way. It would not be fair to bind you to a lost cause." He reached for his lover's hands again, needing him to understand. Needing him to see. But Gregory jerked back and sprang to his feet, eyes blazing and hard.
"I can wait, no, I am willing to wait! Time is relative."
"You would be alone for an indefinite time. In fact, the chances are slim that an opportunity to meet again would ever present itself."
Greg, who'd started to pace, stopped and whirled around. "But you cannot be sure."
"It would not be fair!" Not to you. The man who's risked everything, because he recognised potential where others saw a big-headed know-it-all who fancied himself a detective. The man who uncovered that detective's brother's heart, while everyone else still doubted his humanity. You deserve so much better, Gregory. You deserve everything.
Warm hands on his knees made Mycroft look straight into Gregory's brown eyes. He'd crouched down in front of his armchair, and Mycroft automatically leaned forward. There was no anger in those eyes, just sorrow and the tiredness of someone who'd fought too long.
"Is it fair to you then?" Greg whispered, blinking away tears of frustration and grief, and Mycroft knew then that he couldn't do it.
Abandoning the armchair, he slid forward and down to the ground beside Gregory, who wrapped his arms around him immediately. Mycroft returned the hug and buried his nose in his lover's neck. They remained like that for a while, desperately clinging to one other. Just listening to each other's breathing.
After what felt like an eternity, Mycroft pulled back slightly until their foreheads were touching, eyes closed. “I have something for you. It was meant to be a sign of gratitude for what you have done for me. A reminder of the best of times.” Mycroft's hand found Gregory's face, gently caressing his cheek. “You saved me, Gregory.”
The ring was cool between his fingers as Mycroft tugged it free from where it rested under his linen shirt. Sherlock had excelled all expectations. Not only was the ring now of a tarnished dark-grey colour, but the three diamonds were completely unrecognisable. The surface itself was slightly rough to the touch, like stone that had been polished by the sea and deposited on the shore too soon to be be fully burnished. Despite the visible change, however, the ring hadn't lost any of its value.
After carefully unclasping the chain and sliding the band free, Mycroft let it rest in the hollow of his palm, unsure how to continue. What had been supposed to be a parting gift now had the potential to be something much more, with a far deeper meaning. A promise never to be spoken aloud.
Gregory's eyes widened as Mycroft reached for his hand, gently prying his fingers open and depositing the ring in his palm. “This is my mother's engagement ring, altered by Sherlock's chemical skills to not lure in potential thieves and greedy eyes.” Mycroft carefully squeezed Gregory's hand closed, locking the band inside, and covered it with his own pale hands. “It is mine to give and I would very much like you to have it.”
It could never be a real engagement, but the gesture was just as heart-felt and held so much more than a simple expression of love and devotion. The ring was both 'I have loved you for so long' and 'I will love you for the rest of my life'. A promise to fight against the bonds that would soon rip them apart. And the assurance that should Gregory's life take a turn for the worse, the ring's value would make sure he'd be safe despite Mycroft's possible inability to help.
Greg stared at his hand, still caught between Mycroft's, mouth slightly open in shock and wonder.
A stab of insecurity and doubt made Mycroft's insides squirm. “I know it is not the same,” he stammered, unsure how to interpret Gregory's lack of response. “It can never be, but I hoped that...the gesture at least -”
“Yes,” Greg whispered, a huge smile spreading over his face. “God, yes!” He flung his arms around Mycroft's neck and captured his lips in a deep kiss, conveying what could not be put into words. Mycroft clung tight, relieved and happy, despite what laid ahead.
Yes. The answer to a question that would never be asked, but understood nonetheless. And that was all that mattered.