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Christmas Day has always been both Mycroft’s favourite and most dreaded holiday of the year.
Even as a kid, he had never quite understood the point of celebrating the birth of a Jewish revolutionist who had caused nothing but uprisings and war throughout modern history, nor some sentimental symbol made up as a marketing strategy. He loved the gifts, of course- Christmas had brought him the most captivating books, the finest pens engraved with his name, and the most brilliant games. One year, he received a new computer programme that had allowed him to explore all facets of mathematics. This year, it was a smart watch to track his daily steps and assist him with his efforts to get into shape. His parents were always terrific at finding something he would enjoy.
He even liked the decorations, despite the fact that there was no logical reason for all the effort it meant for his parents. It looked nice. The Christmas tree expanded its fresh smell into the whole house, the golden baubles shining in the warm candle light. The red stockings over the fireplace were filled with sweets and walnuts.
And the food, of course. Even now, shortly past noon, he could make out the various smells of delicacies coming from the kitchen. His mother busied herself to serve perfection. There would be turkey, traditionally, with roasted potatoes and vegetables, and Christmas pudding for dessert – his absolute favourite. Mycroft had tried –and failed – for years to lose interest in it. It was something Sherlock liked to make fun of a lot.
Because here is what he despised about Christmas so much. With all love for his family, he could not spend an entire day with them. Not with his father, who commented the Queen’s speech on tv and expected Mycroft’s attention, whose nose was usually buried in a book. And not with his mother, who petted his hair and told him how glad they were that he was at home for Christmas. She liked to complain about how seldom he came home from university, too.
And the very worst of it all had always been his brother. Sherlock never liked Christmas either, especially not sitting together with family for a full dull day without break. Unlike Mycroft, he was unable to endure it silently. Instead, he liked to demonstrate how bored he was by annoying his brother. He would insult him, hit him, throw Brussel sprouts at him at dinner. Mycroft had struggled with it as a child, and once he had understood that all Sherlock wanted was attention, he had been ready to leave home for university. This year was the second time he came home for Christmas.
He had always tolerated Sherlock’s behaviour, even felt amused by it at times – but he had never thought he would miss it one day. Ever since he had left, their fraternal relationship had changed. Mycroft could not quite explain it, but it felt like Sherlock was not only drifting away from him but trying to divide with all force. There was a quiet threat in the way he sat opposite Mycroft, trying to busy himself on his own. There was anger in the way he pouted. His eyes were narrowed, but Mycroft was not deluded to think that it was in concentration.
Sherlock did not speak to him anymore, unless it was absolutely necessary. He avoided being in one room with him. Now, at Christmas Day, the tension between the two armchairs seemed palpable, constricting for both brothers, no matter how hard their parents tried to ignore it.
Mycroft was therefore glad for the ring of the doorbell. It offered him an opportunity to get away for a moment. “I’ll go.”, he said quickly and earned a contemptuous huff from Sherlock.
He was looking forward to the cool air outside, despite his usual displeasure when it came to encounters with strangers. For a short moment, he was even thinking about going out for a smoke, but it was too risky. Even if his mother did not notice, Sherlock would. And judging from the way he acted right now, getting Mycroft into trouble would make him ecstatic.
Mycroft opened the door with his mind still busy wondering about Sherlock’s behaviour, so the unexpected sight of the beautiful boy in front of him hit him without warning.
The young man in front of the door was slightly shorter than Mycroft, his athletic figure wrapped in a warm, big jacket. Mycroft assumed he was his age. With his thick, brown hair being too long to be called a proper haircut, his pretty features stood out even more. His lips curled into a private smile as he watched the door open. His deep, warm, brown eyes widened with surprise when he looked up at Mycroft, only to be screwed up by a wide, friendly grin.
“Oh, hello!” The pretty boy’s voice was surprisingly deep, East London accent clearly audible in only two words. “Didn’t expect to meet you. Uh…You must be Sherlock’s brother, right?”
Mycroft was absolutely stunned. It was like the sight of the boy had knocked the air out of him. Not that it was unusual for him to be attracted to anybody, he had simply not expected to find someone like this on his parent’s doorstep. He blinked once, twice, to get over the shock, before he narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He watched as those beautiful, deep eyes widened once again in understanding.
“Oh! Uhm…” Awkwardly, the other boy let go off the plate he was holding in both hands – Mycroft only noticed it now, something wrapped up in aluminium foil, and probably the reason why this attractive intruder had come here in first place – and held out his hand to shake. Mycroft took it warily, his eyes fixed on the warm, tanned skin against his. He held his breath.
“I’m Greg. I’m living right next door, my family moved in a few months ago. I’m Sherlock’s babysitter.”
Babysitter? Oh. Of course. His parents had mentioned it over the phone. He had sympathised with the boy – Greg – who had taken this task upon him. For a moment, he was too amazed by the fact that the babysitter idea had worked out, and that Sherlock’s babysitter had such incredible eyes, and the feeling of their linked hands, the gentle pressure, warm, dry skin – that he forgot it was his turn to speak. He drew in a quick breath and quickly let go of the other’s hand, straightening up his posture and masking his face with indifference.
Stupid.
“My name is Mycroft. I’m Sherlock’s brother.”, he said tightly and carefully cleared his throat. Just as he was about to chide himself for the sudden slowness of his mind, Greg grinned again, so warm and welcoming it made it difficult for Mycroft to keep his defences up.
“Never seen you around.”, he remarked before he suddenly glanced down, running his fingers through the dark, long hair, shrugging awkwardly. “Well… Obviously. I'm his babysitter, right? So I’m only there to watch Sherlock when nobody else is at home, so… uh… guess it's pretty natural I’ve not seen you before.” He huffed a nervous laugh and rolled his eyes slightly.
Mycroft blinked, not quite able to follow the other’s stream of thoughts. “I… don’t live here anymore.”, he explained. “I’m at university.”
Greg squirmed slightly and grinned again, his cheeks turning red from what could only be the cold. “Right. Sherlock mentioned that once. But he also said something about you taking over the world, so I assumed it would be best to remain suspicious.”
Mycroft let out a dry huff, rolling his eyes at Sherlock’s exaggerated depiction. “That is always sensible when dealing with my brother.”, he agreed and shifted, tipping his chin up to cover his awkwardness. He caught Greg pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. Mycroft’s guts squirmed uncomfortably.
“What are you studying, then?”, asked Greg, the damned sparkling eyes coaxing Mycroft into not questioning anything.
“Politics and economics.”, he said matter-of-factly. He bit his lip, desperately thinking of something more interesting to say, but Greg did not seem to mind the choice of topic.
“Sherlock might not be wrong about you taking over the world, then.” His wide grin turned cheeky – in a teasing, not in a harmful way, Mycroft realised, and again something squirmed inside him. He blushed and rolled his eyes to play it down, for some reason keen on not appearing arrogant in front of him. Usually, he would not care.
“I guess he’s just jealous ‘cause he wants to be a pirate and rule the world himself, that little rugrat.”, Greg said in a playful tone, the smile turning fond.
Mycroft huffed again, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He looked down quickly and tried to force the smile down, shyness taking over. When he looked up through his eyelashes, he caught Greg grinning again. Oh god.
“So… how long have you been babysitting my little brother?”, he asked lamely, trying to find an excuse to continue the conversation. He just wanted to regard him for a little longer. It was Christmas, after all.
“Four months, now, I think… Five, actually.”
“So you’re still that first one? My brother didn’t scare you away?” Mycroft was surprised that they had found someone suitable at the first try. He had assumed that his parents would need to listen to the complaints of several potential babysitters, or rely on short-term help only. He suddenly realised his words were rather rude and bit his tongue. Where did this come from?
But Greg huffed a laugh. “Oh my god!”, he exclaimed, both shocked and amused. He pressed his lips together, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Well, your parents are paying me well.” He chuckled at his own joke and Mycroft could not help but smile.
“He’s not that bad, actually, you know?”, Greg said, a bit more serious now. “He can be a little shit sometimes, but I genuinely believe it comes from being unchallenged and bored… But I guess you were like that, too? From what Sherlock told me about you, you’re a genius.”
Mycroft blushed and looked away quickly. He was right, of course, but it would hardly be acceptable to let him know. “You’ve already pointed out that it’s wise not to believe everything Sherlock says.”, he said quietly and watched Greg’s smile soften.
“Anyways”, Greg was quick to change the topic, “Sherlock’s pretty brilliant for his age. He did this thing to me when we first met. Knew about my family, told me what I had eaten for breakfast. It was a little scary, to be honest. Since that day, I always make sure to brush my teeth before I come here.”
Now it was Mycroft’s turn to huff his amusement, and Greg grinned at him again, eyes sparkling.
“Seriously”, he continued. “I don’t actually get why your parents need a babysitter for him. He is eleven years old, and he is clever enough to survive for a few hours on his own.”
Mycroft raised a mocking eyebrow. “Are we talking about the same Sherlock?”
“Well, you know… I’m not complaining. I’m happy to work for your parents. And I like your brother.”
Mycroft interrupted Greg’s defence speech with a wry smile. “Well, he could choke on his dummy. Or poop into his nappies, and who would change him?”, he joked drily and rolled his eyes. “My parents tend to be a little overprotective. Besides, it’s not stupid to keep an eye on Sherlock. He won’t be able to cause damage that way.”
“What damage?”
“Blowing up the house with one of his experiments, for example.”, he said seriously. Greg laughed.
“Oi, c’mon on! That’s not fair! It is an unusual hobby, but y’know, it only proves he’s a clever kid. And his experiments are not dangerous. One day I came in and Sherlock was in the kitchen, watching a piece of bologna sausage floating in a glass of coke. It was pretty disgusting… and he said some creepy things, something about human skin… but he wanted just to see the effects of carbon dioxide, or something like that. He didn’t seem to achieve the result he was looking for. He started sulking so I helped him squeeze a lemon and he threw a piece of sausage into that. It was quite fun. No work for me that afternoon, I watched the telly while he wrote reports and made sketches and all that.”
Again, Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “I am certain my brother did a full professional analysis. But do you expect him to stop at that? He will want to examine all other possible acids, too.”
Greg laughed. “Didn’t think about that! It’s good then he doesn’t have the means to get them, then.”
Mycroft smirked slightly, genuinely amused by his unexpected conversation. “So far. He is sharp, he will figure something out. It surely won’t be long until he discovers the dark and useful sides of the internet.”
Mycroft watched the other boy laugh, observed as his eyes crinkled and his lips stretched over his white teeth. Good Lord, he’s attractive. He was so amazed by Greg’s looks and the easy conversation that he completely forgot about the situation. It was only when Greg visibly suppressed a shiver that he became aware of his bad manners. His cheeks tinged pink and he took a deep, steadying breath. God, this was pathetic. It just took a good-looking young man to drive him out of his mind? He cleared his throat. “Don’t you want to come in?”
Greg hesitated for a moment, his mouth half-open to speak, but in the end he closed it and stepped inside. Just as Greg dried his shoes on the doormat, a loud, sulky voice disrupted the comfortable silence between them.
“What is he doing here?” Mycroft tensed immediately, bracing himself for any kind of attack. Sherlock could probably see the blush on his face. Would he be able to read it?
“Hey there, Bug.”, Greg greeted him easily, still grinning. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the pet name, but he did nothing apart from crossing his arms in front of his chest. Mycroft was impressed. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to take you with me. ‘Just wanted to bring some cookies.”
Sherlock hurried over, not looking at either of them as he grabbed the plate with cookies from Greg’s hand. “Don’t give them to Mycroft.”, he said, spitting out the name with despise. “He’s fat enough.” Haughtily, he tipped his chin up, bottom lip protruding fully from the upper and curls bouncing as he walked back to the living room.
“Oi! Merry Christmas to you, too!”, Greg called after him with what Mycroft thought was an edge of anger.
Mycroft pursed his lips, trying to shake off Sherlock’s comment as quickly as possible. He was used to this – or he should be. It did not stop the blush from creeping up his neck.
“You’re not too close then?”, Greg asked carefully and the gentleness in his tone surprised him. He pressed his lips together and looked away to control his expression, desperately trying for indifference again.
“We were, perhaps. Right now… I believe you are way closer to him then I am.” He managed to keep the sadness out of his tone, but Greg looked at him so intensely with these brown eyes he was not sure if he managed to hide it completely.
“Well, maybe we could meet up in the next few days. You know, I could show you some of my tricks. There are actually methods to shut him up.”, Greg offered without hesitation and gave him a soft smile that made the heavy-lidded eyes look warm and kind.
Once more, it made his stomach turn in that strange way that should make him feel nauseous but didn’t. He pushed it away quickly, not thinking about the weird sensation. It was a kind offer, but Mycroft knew exactly where it came from. Pity.
“No, thank you. I know plenty of these myself.”, he snapped.
“Oi, I didn’t mean… I meant…” Greg looked away and bit his lip, and for a brief moment Mycroft thought that somehow, for some reason, he looked disappointed. And then something happened inside him, something that divided his body from his brain. He started speaking and although his mind shouted at him to stop, he went all through with it.
“Perhaps a meeting would not be the worst idea.”, he heard himself say. “I’m sure you know Sherlock pretty well. I have, in a way, lost the connection to him. You might have some valuable information on how to get him to speak to me.”
Later, he would rationalise his actions with exactly these words.
Greg beamed at him and while it made Mycroft’s throat go dry, he felt warm inside. If seeing that grin was his reward, this might not be too stupid.
“Yeah, of course! That’s a great idea! You probably wouldn’t believe it after this scene, but Sherlock actually talks about you all the time. I think hope’s not lost there. So, uhm… how long are you staying?”
“I’m leaving at New Year’s Day.”
“Great! I’ll be busy celebrating Boxing day with my family tomorrow, but maybe we could meet the day after that? The 27th?”
Mycroft swallowed and took a deep breath against the abrupt dizziness. He blinked, confused about Greg’s enthusiasm, and put on a small, forced smile to cover his nerves. “Very well.”
There was a short moment of silence in which Greg’s smile and Mycroft’s confusion grew, then Greg shifted awkwardly. “Actually, if you gave me your phone, I could give you my number? You’ll be able to text me, then. About the time.”
Silently, against the complaints of his mind, Mycroft pulled his phone out of his trouser pockets and handed it the other boy who quickly typed in his name and number. When he looked up at Mycroft again, his eyes fixed on a spot at the ceiling. Mycroft checked the new contact on his phone.
Greg Lestrade.
“Is that a mistletoe?” His words made his head snap up at the ceiling. Greg sounded amused. His smile turned into a gentle smirk. “There’s still people who put these up?”
“My parents like traditions.”, was all Mycroft could say to that. It was why there was a mistletoe, and why his mother prepared the Christmas pudding, and why the Queen’s voice came from the telly, and why Mycroft was here at all.
Then something weird happened. Greg looked up from under his eyelashes, the deep, dark eyes fixing on his own grey ones and holding on for a moment. It was just when Mycroft raised his eyebrows in confusion that he understood what was going on. He gasped for breath, his eyes widening with the realisation and he wanted to step back, but Greg was faster. Suddenly, the other boy stepped closer just a bit, standing on tip toes to reach Mycroft.
It was just a soft brush of lip against lip, barely any pressure, a soft pull, but Mycroft could feel his heart racing in his chest and his eyelashes fluttered when Greg pulled away. It had been so sudden and so brief, his mind only now started processing what just happened. The gentle touch had left his lips tingling for more and he bit it unconsciously, seeking the pressure he had just felt. The picture of Greg, eyes half-closed as he leaned in, had burned itself into his mind.
He was so pre-occupied with the blood rushing up his neck, worrying it might create an unattractive red that did not go well with his hair, that he did not even notice the soft blush on the other’s tanned cheeks. Greg stepped away and cleared his throat, a shy smile forming on his lips.
“Right. See you in a few days then, yeah? Merry Christmas, Mycroft!”
Without giving him the opportunity to answer, Greg turned on his heels and quickly left the house with a wide smile on his face. For a moment, Mycroft enjoyed the air from outside cooling his burning cheeks, but it didn’t calm his mind. His insides were still squirming and a strange feeling rose in his chest, like a bubble of something, some sentiment that was about to burst. He closed the door and stood motionlessly, simultaneously fighting a smile and the strange sensation in his guts.
Dear god. What have I done?