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For Mycroft, harmony and logic were the essentials in life.
A misshaped or misplaced object, a non-harmonic sound, an illogical thought were all disturbing the order of things, offending the intrinsic logic governing nature, and for these reasons they were all deemed to be rejected without further consideration. He was not doing it consciously; or, to be more specific, he was not doing it always or completely consciously: his brain was simply refusing to consider anything which was not orderly logical and harmonic. What was not the latter, what belonged to the “insufferable craziness of goldfish thinking”, was either modified or neglected. The insufferable craziness was an almost physical pain for Mycroft, similar to a blow in his stomach or a burst of electricity in his brain, such as a small electroshock, which was not pleasant at all.
Classical music helped him to recover from his daily exposure to goldfish and their chaos. Music was mathematically coherent, with a predictable order and symmetry. Like substantially all forces in nature, it could be explained by beautiful equations which were understandable and not subject to absurd variable personal interpretations.
His brother, Sherlock, had been a dissonant element in Mycroft’s logical world for a long while. The feelings of worry, anger, or pure fear, that could clench Mycroft’s heart when witnessing his brother’s actions, could have been considered a serious flaw in Mycroft’s harmonic logical persona. However, he took his time to analyze and examine the issue, and found out that it made sense: indeed Sherlock was sharing his own genes. Mycroft knew that his job put him in danger every day. Although he tried to stay hidden and to make himself unnoticed, it was substantially impossible in the upper echelon of power to simply remain invisible. Those who really held the power, not the ones to whom the power was assigned, knew who he was and the capabilities he had. In case of his demise, the Holmes’ legacy and genetic marvel could be continued only by his brother, Sherlock. Therefore, his protective feelings were entirely logical, being the continuation of the Holmes’ genetic heritage a biological imperative.
It was much more complicated to explain the feelings he was developing for Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man was a valuable asset in taking care of his brother, in dealing with Sherlock’s demand for cases and in containing his addiction. He could comprehend the logic of keeping Lestrade safe, due to Lestrade’s above described value, but he could not understand the longing for his presence, which was scarily turning into a longing for his touch, his skin, in a desire for him.
The issue became more distracting and disturbing for Mycroft when the Detective Inspector started showing a bewildering interest in his non-professional self. The Inspector took the habit of sending him random texts asking him about his day or – God forbid – his feelings, texts which had nothing to do with his brother or any case they had in common. Lestrade was seeking his presence, asking him out for coffee or meals, or inviting him for a short encounter at the end of a tiring day, often accompanied by a shot of good liqueur. Not to mention the flattering comments he was receiving more and more often about his “slender body wrapped in suits”, as the Inspector phrased it.
At the beginning, he studied this Lestrade’s craziness like he did with all other craziness he encountered. He looked for signs of further clear aims explaining this behavior, such as obtaining secret information, advancing in career, mocking at his expenses, satisfying an itch, all of which made sense. He of course tested Lestrade to determine which one of the above applied to the present case; however Lestrade passed all his tests with flying colors. The interest seemed sincere and honest, which in turn was so illogical and nonsensical, and the whole issue was further exacerbated by the fact that Mycroft had to admit to himself he was lazily basking in this gentle courting.
The bolder Lestrade got, the more scared Mycroft became. Not only were his feelings illogical for him, but also Lestrade’s. He knew he was not an attractive man by usual standards, and whatever appeal he had was further diminished by his total lack of experience in the relationships and sex departments. Mycroft felt frozen most of the times, unable to function, not knowing how to behave, how to reply to Lestrade’s flirting and interest.
The farthest they went in their mutual physical closeness generally involved some kissing. The contact of Lestrade’s – no, Gregory’s – lips on his was always sending a thrill along his spine and was awakening sensations he thought his body was not made for. The gentle caresses, the warmth of Gregory’s hands on his torso were almost enough to short-circuit his brain. However, if Gregory was unbuttoning more than the third button of his shirt below the collar, or was touching any little bit of naked skin in his tummy area, or was too fervently licking his neck, not to mention if an accidental contact with Gregory’s erection took place, Mycroft brain returned online in a microsecond from the previously hazed state, and his only reaction was … fleeing. He knew Lestrade was a kind and patient man, but also the patience of a saint could get drained, and he had his share of experience about this dealing with Sherlock. He was a 49 years old man, for God’s sake! How could he be so scared about something he knew he liked, no, he wanted, but simply could not understand?
He was tired to see the pain in Gregory’s gentle brown eyes, tired in particular to be the cause of it. It was not his intention to reject the man, not at all. He simply did not know what to do, how to convince his brain that he was not trying to create havoc in the harmonic world he patiently and painstakingly created in all these years by bringing Lestrade in it. He was prepared to stop whatever he was trying to do with Gregory; the man did not deserve all this.
Then, in a Eureka moment, while watching a special commemoration on BBC1 about the death of the brilliant scientist Stephen Hawkins, Mycroft understood.
The program was discussing Hawkins’ theories about black holes and was trying to simplify the complex relativity theory for the non-specialists in the field. And Mycroft was listening. One of the most powerful forces in the universe, gravity, which controls the Earth in its rotation around the Sun and the solar system in its rotation around the Milky Way central black hole, makes no sense. It simply can’t be quantized, and unified with the other forces of nature. For quantum mechanics, gravity is a complete puzzle. However, no one can deny that gravity exists and determines most of everyday life. There would be no life on Earth without it.
This was a shocking revelation for Mycroft’s logical mind. If that was true for nature, not everything in Mycroft’s life needed to be logical in order to be real and powerful. Although his pull towards Lestrade was not logical, not dictated by any writable mathematical equation, it did not mean that it was weaker and that he was not allowed to follow it, as Earth was constantly following the Sun in its race across the universe pulled by a nonsensical force.
That evening, when Lestrade arrived at his door with their favorite takeaway, he knew what he had to do; for the first time since the beginning of the Lestrade’s craziness he had a clear plan on how to behave during the evening. He felt enormously relieved.
At the end of the meal, he collected the cartons and cleaned the kitchen. Gregory as usual helped him in wiping it clean, to restore the order it previously had. Gregory even knew the exact position in which he wanted everything in it. They moved to the living room, dimming the light. He went to take one of his favorite whiskeys, pouring two glasses, while Gregory made himself comfortable on the coach. He handed one glass over and he sipped a bit from his, then he apologized and told his guest that he needed to make a stop in the bathroom.
Mycroft stood for a while in front of the mirror above the sink looking at himself. He could not deny that he was scared. He was scared, but determined at the same time: the panic that forced him to flee the previous times was not present any more in his brain. He searched a bit in the vastness of his intellect and the feeling of “wrong” which was dwelling there since the beginning of the Lestrade’s craziness had disappeared. He scrutinized his face, his non-remarkable features, and he clenched his jaw. He could do it. He wanted to do it. His eyes were indeed smiling.
Mycroft splashed a bit of cold water on his face, dried his hands and started removing his shoes and clothes, the three piece suit so much appreciated by Gregory. He left his underwear on and neatly folded all the rest, putting it on a small stool, the shoes symmetrically positioned under it. He took a deep breath and approached the bathroom’s door. Slightly trembling, he slowly walked through the hallway to reach the living room. At the soft noise made by his steps, Gregory’s head turned towards him. He made a first step inside the living room and Gregory’s eyes widened immediately, his lips slightly parted. Mycroft looked in his eyes and stepped forward.
That night, Mycroft allowed himself to moan randomly and non-periodically.