Work Text:
It was a quiet Saturday morning. Greg woke up to the sound of Mycroft making breakfast. He rolled over his back, turning on his phone screen, and taking a glance at the time; 6:45 a.m. He groaned. After all this time together, he still hated when Mycroft had to go to his office during weekends. Well, he had night shifts, and had to go to his office sometimes during weekend, but it was nowhere near the amount of work Mycroft had to do. Plus, he at least had a more relaxed schedule at weekends. He sighed, getting out of bed, closing his eyes and stretching. Looking at the turn of events, he would go with Mycroft, and have breakfast together, so he could see him before going to work. He opened his eyes and looked at his shirt, discarded in the passion of last night and sitting now over one of the shelves. He decided against putting it on. Maybe he could persuade Mycroft to stay at home.
He got out of their room, and had started walking through the corridor, when he crossed Mycroft’s home office (which was actually an office they both used, but Mycroft used it way more, so they called it like that). An idea struck him. He entered the office, and very carefully, he took a pencil, for actually not ruining Mycroft’s work, and scribbled down “I love you, gorgeous.” in one of the documents neatly piled up on the desk. He then got out of the office as fast as he could, like a child who has done something bad, and went to the kitchen.
Mycroft was cooking something that smelled like pancakes with his back to the door. As Greg approached, he heard him softly humming something that Greg was sure that was classical music, but didn’t actually knew the name. Finally, he hugged him, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. He breathed deeply, staying there for a while, without saying anything. Mycroft, who had momentarily stopped humming, continued his song after realising it was Greg the person behind him.
“Did I wake you up?” Mycroft finally broke the silence.
“No, not really. Just heard you cooking and decided to make you company.”
“That’s waking you up, Greg. I’m…”
“No need to be sorry, Myc.” Greg cut Mycroft mid-apologising. Mycroft sighed.
“You know it’s not hygienic going shirtless on a kitchen. And, you’re near boiling oil. You could get burnt.” Mycroft changed the subject.
“I don’t believe you told me the first thing as an actual statement, and I’m using you as my personal oil shield, so I have nothing to worry about.” Greg smiled.
“So nice.” Mycroft stated dryly.
“Hush, you big complainer. Do you have to go to your office today?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I was going to make you some pancakes for you, anyways.”
“Pancakes don’t make up for your absence, gorgeous.” Greg kissed his neck, rising up to the ear and softly nibbling it.
“If you continue this particular way, dear Gregory, you won’t have neither me not your pancakes, as they’ll get burnt.” Mycroft warned.
“Dear Gregory?” Greg snorted “I wasn’t that yesterday, was I?” Greg raised a cocky eyebrow, grinning and observing Mycroft’s ears turn red.
“I’m sorry, but Her Majesty…” Mycroft looked at him apologetically.
“Yes, i get it, Myc. Even if I’d prefer having you here, with me, as the selfish person I am. I don’t care who requires you. I want you here with me.”
“I’ll be home soon, I promise. But then, there’s the another matter, highly confidential, and everyone who knows is crazy about it, so I’ll need to stay until late afternoon. I’d try to say no, I promise, but…”
“Well, anyways, it’s the Queen, so it’d be rude, I think.” Greg reasoned hugging him even more tightly.
“Indeed.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“Her Majesty demanded I had breakfast with her. Again, it would be highly inconsiderate if I had already had breakfast while she waited for me.”
“If that words came from other person, I’d say it was a lame excuse, but you’re Mycroft Holmes.” Greg observed, and went on kissing Mycroft’s neck, determined to make him stay, even if that meant losing the pancakes. “Queen’s favourite boy…”
Mycroft managed not to burn the last pancake, which was hard with the distraction of Greg behind him, and tried to turn around.
“Greg…”
“Not now, alright.” Greg sighed.
“Here.” Mycroft put the plate, full of warm pancakes, on Greg’s hands. “Have to go now.” He looked apologetically to Greg.
“It’s fine, Myc. Don’t worry.” Greg smiled, causing Mycroft to smile too.
After a long embrace, Greg finally pulled away, knowing that Mycroft had to go now, as a matter of fact, because he’d be late if they continued like this. Mycroft disappeared into his office, and emerged seconds later with a pile of folders loaded with important documents containing God knew what highly confidential stuff.
“Bye, gorgeous. See you later.” Greg told him from the kitchen. Mycroft, who had already reached the front door, turned around, going back to the kitchen and kissing Greg goodbye.
“Goodbye, Greg. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Mycroft got to Windsor about one hour after leaving home. He was received by Her Majesty, who, among other things, reminded him to call her Elizabeth (“I’ve already told you that, dear, but you seem to forget every time we meet.”), asked him about his love life (“You know, if I had an unmarried daughter, I’d be delighted if you courted her.”), and talked about her corgis (“Whisper is such a rascal; he’s learned where I hide the dog biscuits!”). After two delightful hours, she dismissed him, and Mycroft went back to London, to his office, to get some work done.
If the day had started great, it surely didn’t continue that way. After solving a major political crisis, he just wanted to have a five minute break, when he ate, and finish the paperwork that had been sitting on his table since Friday morning. He had just started to read the last document, focusing on the first paragraph, when he heard his door opening, followed by a “Hello, brother mine!” too cheerful to sound realistic. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and opened them again, to find a smiling Sherlock, followed by an agitated Doctor Watson, who had been surely begging Sherlock to leave him work in peace.
“What do you want now, Sherlock?”
“Oh, absolutely nothing. A trivial thing, really insignificant. Nothing too big…”
“What, Sherlock?”
“I want to test the gold of the Crown Jewels. To see if it’s authentic.”
Mycroft dropped the document he was reading.
“What could have inspired that sudden patriotism, I wonder?”
“Maybe Moriarty replaced them.”
“It was already tested when that happened. And they were still the same.” Mycroft remarked. “Now, if there aren’t any more theories that involve the Royal family, I’d very much appreciate…”
“You’ve had breakfast with her, didn’t you?” Sherlock smiled.
“What if I did? At least I’m not banned from Balmoral until further notice, dear brother.” Mycroft retorted.
“That was not my fault.”
“Well, entering the castle, without previous…”
“Alright, let’s stop arguing!” John shouted, making the two brothers to stop embarrassing each other more. “Sherlock, you tried, he doesn’t want to...”
“Because he’s a child.” Sherlock teased.
“Because of obvious reasons, mind you.” Mycroft promptly answered.
“Enough! Mycroft, sorry for disturbing you, here you have whatever you dropped before…” said John, handing Mycroft the document. Mycroft reached for it, but Sherlock had seen something off, and was faster than his older brother grabbing it.
“Sherlock…” Mycroft warned. Sherlock then got really near Mycroft, and started smelling him. Mycroft was starting to get dangerously nervous. John didn’t know what Sherlock had found in the document, but anyways, there had to be something. Sherlock then gave the document back to John, who instantly noticed the note written: “I love you, gorgeous.” John really tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. He started laughing. That was the last thing he had expected to find.
“Who is he?” Sherlock asked finally, exasperated. He started spinning around Mycroft. “The handwriting is a man’s handwriting. Right handed, which doesn’t help that much. I know you made him pancakes in the morning, just for him, as you had to work today, so it was a way of asking for apologies. You look way more relaxed than usual, meaning you had sex last night. But, Sherlock, maybe he went to his house and I ‘relieved myself’. Judging by the kisses all over your neck, which probably continue beneath your clothes, the man was still at your house this morning. Doesn’t surprise me, anyways, remembering the ‘no one-night stands’ rule you’ve always followed. No signs of any other cologne, just your aftershave and the Queen’s cologne, which means he had just woke up, probably by your orchestra in the kitchen. Silver hairs on the back of your suit, so, older than you, then, but not that old. Hugged you. How romantic. So, we’re looking for a silver haired man, right handed, probably respectful of the rules, with a job that makes him understand your workaholic tendencies, strong, but deeply romantic inside…” Sherlock frowned.
“Sherlock…” John said, casually.
“Not now, John.”
“Sherlock…” John tried again.
“Shhh. I’ll need to get in my mind palace.”
“He’s Lestrade, Sherlock.” John finally said.
Sherlock stood still. It made sense. Everything fitted perfectly. But still…
“How did you know?”
“Remember a week ago, when Mycroft appeared on a crime scene? He and Lestrade wouldn’t stop looking at each other. That was a hint. The handwriting is Greg’s. That’s another. And he told me two weeks ago. After I asked him why he was so happy. And after he had drunk a bit.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock protested. John looked at Mycroft, who looked like he’d have been happier if the Earth opened under his foot right now.
“Because I told Greg I wouldn’t tell anybody, and specifically you.”
“Why specifically me?”
“Because you already torment him enough!”
“I just state the obvious. It’s not my fault he feels insulted.”
“Saying that all of Scotland Yard isn’t intelligent enough to solve Lincoln’s murder is an insult, I think.”
“Will you two please continue the bickering outside of my office?” John swore that voice could have cut steel. Sherlock thought the same, because he went out of his office immediately. John mumbled an apology and a goodbye, and disappeared as fast as he could. Mycroft was left alone, with the document, which was slightly crumpled. He took it into his hands, and looked at it to finally find the note. “I love you, gorgeous.” He sighed, unable to fight a smile. He loved this man more than anyone could imagine. He turned to his computer, printing the document again, and leaving the first copy, neatly folded, into a drawer on his desk, as a reminder for the bad days.