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Greg Lestrade watched the tall, immaculately dressed man put the file folder stamped “Official Scotland Yard Business” into a large envelope before setting it on the side of his desk.
“Do I want to know just how deep you're going to bury that report?”
Mycroft Holmes looked up with a small smile. “I'm sure it will be unearthed at some point. Around the next Ice Age, if I'm giving a conservative estimate.”
Lestrade grinned. “It's appreciated. Though, I'm a little surprised, you going out on a limb like this for Donovan. She's not exactly been Sherlock's biggest fan.”
“She does her job. Additionally, contrary to my brother's petulant statements, she does it quite well.” Mycroft’s expression was somewhat guarded. “Though I take it mishaps of this nature will not be a regular occurrence?”
“Trust me, if she gets out of pocket like this again, I'll pack her box personally.” Lestrade's voice was almost a growl. “She could've gotten herself and Sherlock killed.”
“She did apprehend the suspects.” Mycroft smiled faintly. “Even my brother was a half-step behind her in deducing the true culprits. And of course, that half-step, and that well-timed shove from Sergeant Donovan did save his life.”
Greg hid a smirk. Now he understood why Mycroft had been so keen to help Sally. He often wondered if Sherlock was so tetchy when it came to his older brother because he knew exactly how far Mycroft could and would go to keep his narrow arse out of jail, an asylum, or the Holmes family crypt – and how generous and slightly terrifying he could be to anyone who helped him achieve those goals, even if done unwittingly. One only had to whisper “Baskerville” in Sherlock's ear to get him blushing and stammering like a shocked virgin.
Now Mycroft was doing it again, but this time he'd have Sally Donovan in his debt as well. Greg almost sniggered to think of Sally and Sherlock bonding over the magnificently annoying omnipotence of Mycroft Holmes.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective Inspector?”
Greg tilted his head. “Anything like …?”
“I'm not entirely sure,” Mycroft said after a short pause. “I suppose I was asking if our business today is at an end.”
“D’you mean the business of the bony-arsed consulting detective and the wayward police sergeant? Yeah, I think you’ve managed to sort that,” said Greg, nodding toward the large envelope.
“Indeed.” Mycroft looked up at him, giving a contemplative brow lift. “Did we have other business?”
“Uh ...” Greg's mouth went suddenly dry. There were so many ways to answer that question, and yet, he knew that there was really only one way to answer it. Mycroft Holmes was a very busy man, quite possibly the busiest man in London. More than likely, he had THINGS TO DO – any number of murky tasks involving national security, countries whose names had about 11 consonants in a row, Her Majesty's corgi breeding service ...
Sherlock had once mentioned that he and his brother prized intelligence above all things. With that in mind, Greg thought it would serve him well to show Mycroft that whatever low opinion Sherlock might have of his capacity for rational thought was unfounded.
Mycroft was looking up at him politely, his hands folded over a spotless desk blotter, a small grin stretching his lips as he attempted to smile Greg out of the room. Lestrade reckoned that was better than a dismissive hand wave any day.
Greg took a breath, ready to display his wit and discretion by thanking Mycroft again for saving Donovan's arse and career – and his own along with it, incidentally – and quitting the “royal presence” with a casual nod, and not risk saying anything that would result in Mycroft's wishing he hadn't stuck his neck out.
Yes, doing exactly that, and in that order, would have certainly gone a long way toward putting his full spectrum of immense intellect on display. Yet, Greg was only mildly surprised to note that his feet didn't seem keen on moving, and his mouth didn't seem very keen on staying shut.
“So, er … d'you have anything on this weekend?”
Greg noticed that the Holmes brothers shared one very interesting trait. When surprised or caught off-guard – which was rare – they didn't jump or frown or blush or chuckle nervously when trying to regroup and formulate a response: They blinked.
Sherlock did so rapidly, many times in a row, which – if he'd had a different sort of personality, and a less stark and serious face – would have almost seemed coy and flirtatious. Mycroft tended to stagger his blinks a little bit. They'd come in a group, then stop for a bit, and then another set would follow.
Greg had to smother a smile when as he took in Mycroft's otherwise-impassive expression. Nothing on his face moved except his eyelids.
Blinkblinkblink. Pause. Blinkblink.
“Excuse me?”
Greg nearly choked. Mycroft's recovery time was much faster than Sherlock's, apparently.
But his polite smile was curdling a little and his eyes had narrowed just the tiniest bit. Greg knew he had about two seconds in which to try to not make an utter fool of himself, and just as the buzzer began to sound in his brain, something surfaced that he grabbed onto like a life raft.
“When Sherlock was being looked over by the medics at the crime scene, I heard him mention something about having plans this weekend to see your parents,” said Greg, “and that it was a good job he didn't actually die this time – again – because your mum wouldn't have been best pleased.”
Mycroft tilted his head. “Mummy? Sherlock is going there this weekend?”
Greg nodded slowly. “That's what he said. Well, what I thought I heard him say, anyway. I was sort of listening with half an ear, trying to make sure the perps were secured in the panda car. One of ‘em put up a fight, but that got handled fairly sharp.”
Blinkblink. Pause. Blink. Pause. Blinkblink.
Greg caught his lower lip between his teeth. He wasn't quite comfortable with this pattern of blinking. He half wondered if it was actually some sort of ocular Morse Code being picked up by the numerous cameras Greg just knew were hidden in Mycroft's office, all trained on the man’s face to pick up any signal to send assassins immediately to dispose of an unwanted visitor – in this case, a somewhat cheeky DI who didn’t quite know when to leave well enough alone.
He glanced uneasily at the door, wondering if he was an ace away from being dragged out by a couple of the genteelly intimidating guards at the front desk. But Mycroft's face suddenly brightened. Greg breathed a silent sigh of relief as his blinking patterns returned to normal.
“Oh, of course. I'd almost forgotten that it's that time of year.”
Greg’s brow wrinkled. “Uh, what time of year would that be?”
“My mother’s vegetable garden is something she takes very seriously,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock has been helping her in early spring and late summer for ages. He also assists a neighbor who keeps several bee colonies on his property in harvesting the honey. It's just about ripe at this time of year.”
Greg's mouth hung open. He wasn't sure if being marched out of Mycroft’s office by armed guards would not have been less of a shock to his system than what he was hearing.
“Sherlock? Gardening? Bees?”
“I know that my brother's rather cadaverous complexion might not indicate it, but he does quite like the outdoors.” Mycroft's voice was dry. “He was almost always out in the open air as a child, usually in the garden. He had quite the green thumb, in fact. Mummy gave him his own plot of land. He generally grew rutabagas.”
Greg was quiet. He wasn't quite sure what to say as the image of Sherlock as a child, dark curls askew, in dungarees and with smudges of dirt on his face, presented itself in his mind's eye. It was so contrary to the picture of Sherlock he would ever have imagined, though Greg found himself somewhat relieved that dismembered body parts hadn't been a part of young Sherlock's repertoire.
But still. Bees?
“You seem surprised, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft sounded slightly amused. “Or are you just not a fan of rutabagas?”
“Um, no, I mean, my folks kept a garden, and I mucked around there, mainly pulling up nutgrass, so it's not too hard for me to picture a young lad doing that as a help to his mum or even growing veg as a lark,” said Greg. “But the bees are a bit of a shock. As a sprog I played around with hornet's nests and paid the price a few times, but I never thought about bees otherwise. Not a big fan of things that sting. And I guess I can't see Sherlock in that getup the beekeeping blokes wear, with the netting and all.”
“He has a knack,” said Mycroft with a shrug. “This particular neighbor – it seems like he's always been elderly, but he’s likely close to 90 now, and still remarkably spry – said that Sherlock had a special touch. And my brother seemed fascinated with them. He admired their industriousness and the idea that every bee in the colony knew its place in the grand order of things. Gathering the honey was rather beside the point for him. He much preferred the winter months, when the bees form new hives. He would assist Mr. Minchin in the installation of a new queen in each colony – a very painstaking and precise business, from what I understand.”
“Oh. Well, yeah. I guess it would be.” Greg smiled nervously, not even sure why he was nervous. He felt as if he'd stepped into some sort of alternate timeline – one where Sherlock Holmes was actually somewhat relatable. And had a fancy for observing insects, and growing root vegetables.
“So that’s your weekend? Open air, new soil and fresh honey?”
Mycroft looked stunned. “Me? Oh, no, no, I won't be going.”
Greg wanted to say Huh? but he'd already widely missed the mark on sounding/looking intelligent in the past five minutes, so he settled for a prolonged throat-clearing.
“Why not? Not a bee-fancier?”
“Not especially. I suppose it's an inheritance from our father,” Mycroft said. “He has quite a serious allergy to bee venom, though not a fatal one. He even avoids anything made with honey, which is quite a feat considering the extent of his sweet tooth. I’m not allergic, but I was never very keen.”
“Right, but won't you go up for dinner or anything?”
Mycroft shook his head. “While I'd be welcome, this gardening ritual is something over which my brother and mother … bond. And as there has been a two-year hiatus in their little routine, I would rather think it best to leave them to it.”
Greg winced a little. He hadn't thought about that. Now he understood why Sherlock had sounded so uncharacteristically earnest when speaking to the medic.
“So … you, er, don't have any plans for the weekend?”
“Not as such, no. Possibly catching up on work, but there’s nothing incredibly exciting in that,” answered Mycroft, his gaze darting down to his relatively empty desk. He frowned, as if annoyed that there wasn't a mound of paperwork awaiting him.
“Was there anything else, Detective Inspector? Because if not …?” The small smile that was meant to usher Lestrade out the door had returned.
Greg Lestrade was no fool. He'd made small talk with Mycroft Holmes and had lived to tell about it. He might even say it had gone … well? He'd learned some things about Sherlock that he never would have guessed – and, in some respect, gleaned a few things about the Holmes family as a whole. It was clearly time to finally do the intelligent thing and leave the man in peace.
“Right, well, would you like to do something, maybe? If you've got nothing on?”
Greg swallowed reflexively, as if trying to stuff the words back down his throat – but he was just a tick too late. Mycroft, for his part, was staring at him, wide-eyed. No blinking this time. Greg wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a horrible thing.
Finally, in a voice that sounded as if it were being dragged from the bottom of a well, Mycroft ventured: “I'm sorry?”
Lestrade knew he’d miscalculated, but he couldn't just laugh it off. The words had been said, and it was not a joke. He knew that he could say “never mind,” gibber out some nonsense, and beat a hasty retreat – and Mycroft, soul of discretion that he was, would never mention it again.
Nevertheless, there were options to disengage his foot from his mouth. There was even a chance that he could still escape with his dignity only slightly bruised. All he had to do was be intelligent and say the correct thing that would smooth this all over – and then get the bloody hell out, finally.
Greg wet his lips. “If you're free this weekend, would you fancy getting a drink or dinner or maybe going to the cinema? With me.”
He felt sweat begin to bead up beneath his shirt collar as Mycroft gaped at him.
Oh well. Intelligence was overrated anyway.
Mycroft was quiet for a long moment. Greg saw his eyes flick briefly over to where Sally's file rested.
“Detective Inspector,” he said slowly, “if you're proposing some sort of quid pro quo for my assistance with Sergeant Donovan’s … issue, let me assure you, there is no need –”
“– Christ,” muttered Greg, shaking his head. He felt a little better now. Mycroft was being a bit thick himself at the moment, and that made him feel as if he were almost on equal footing.
“This has bugger-all to do with Donovan,” said Greg, fighting to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “You don't have plans this weekend. I don't have plans this weekend. I'm asking if maybe you'd be interested in doing something together. If you aren't, it's fine, but … well, I thought I'd ask.”
Greg wasn’t overly fond of the faltering finish to his sentence, but he thought that the rest of it had been delivered straightforwardly enough that it could be overlooked.
He watched Mycroft take a long, silent breath. It was nice watching the long, graceful neck flex, the smooth skin tightening just the slightest fraction.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Mycroft enunciated each word. “Are you … asking me out on … a date?”
“Yes. I am.”
Blinkblinkblinkblinkblink. Long pause. Blinkblinkblink.
“I … hardly know how to answer that.”
Greg felt an odd surge of relief that the blinking had started up again. He decided not to probe into that too deeply.
“Well, I'd vote for 'yes,' but it's up to you.” Greg waited a moment during which time he and Mycroft simply stared at each other. “I understand if you need some time to think it over.”
Blink. Pause. Blink. Pause.
“Are you intent on cinema and dinner?”
Greg wondered at the sudden whistling in his ears, and he realized that it was his breath – and that he had been holding it. He let it out in what he thought was a discreet whoosh, but it sounded a bit like Mrs. Hudson dodgy teakettle.
“Er, sorry. Something in my throat.” Greg gave a few half-hearted coughs. “Uh … well, no, I’m not. We can go wherever, do whatever. There’s plenty of – wait.” Lestrade’s face burned. “Does that mean you'd like to go out with me this weekend?”
Mycroft raised his brows. “Yes. I … believe I would.”
Greg felt his own eyelids fluttering. He didn’t even bother to note his own pattern of blinking, as he knew it didn’t mean anything. It was simply that his face had no idea what to do at that moment.
“Yes?”
Right. His mouth was also having a bit of trouble still, as well.
“Yes.”
“As in … yes? You mean … yes? Seriously? Yes?”
Mycroft was smiling. Somehow, that simple action did what Greg’s stern internal commands and brain waves could not accomplish, and Greg’s mouth shut with a snap.
“But perhaps we could partake in something a bit different, if you're of a mind?” Mycroft asked. “It's a bit unusual, to tell the truth, but it might be … enjoyable.”
Mycroft’s pensive expression would have mildly concerned Greg if he weren't concentrating so hard on not pissing himself in excitement.
“Different? Sure. I’m all for different. Different is good! Different is … yeah. Good!”
Mycroft still seemed somewhat apprehensive. “It can be, at times, yes.”
“Does it involve, er, smart clothing? A suit, or somesuch?”
Greg wondered where, if necessary, he could get full white tie on two days' notice. Maybe Mycroft’s hypothetical assassin squad doubled as tailors? Mycroft seemed like the sort of administrator who liked his staff to be versatile.
Mycroft shook his head. “No, actually, the more casual the better. Light fabrics and colors would be ideal.”
Greg's eyes widened. Mycroft Holmes in casual clothes? Khakis and a crewneck? Or even jeans?
He had to fight – hard – not to lick his lips again.
“Right. That’ll be no problem.” Greg peered at Mycroft. “And, uh, just to be clear, this isn't something that'll have me had up on charges or before the disciplinary board to 'discuss my career choices' or involving phony, staged crime scenes, unattached body parts, or harpoons?”
Mycroft sniggered beneath his breath. “None of the above, I assure you. We will, however, need tickets. I don't anticipate the venue becoming sold out, but it would be good to have tickets beforehand, just in case.”
“Right. I'll take care of those. Just let me know what and where.”
Greg was relatively certain that it wasn't football – not that he thought Mycroft couldn't appreciate a good footie match, but that wasn't unusual, at all. Though of late, Arsenal winning more than one match in a row was unusual, but that was neither here nor there.
“I'll text you the information,” said Mycroft. “I have to double check that it is on this weekend, and the exact time it opens. Though we'd be able to walk around, I suppose, if we were slightly off on the time.”
Greg nodded. It sounded like some sort of art exhibit or museum. Fine. Not his usual date spot, but he could expand his horizons. With a man like Mycroft Holmes, he reckoned he was going to have to.
“Great. I'll, uh, keep an eye out for your text.” Greg smiled. “I'm looking forward to it. The date, I mean. And, the uh, text, too.”
Mycroft's answering smile was a bit tentative. “As am I, Detect –”
“Greg.”
“Of course. Greg.” Mycroft's smile widened minutely. “I do hope that you still feel that way after you discover our destination.”
Greg's brow creased. “Cor, you make it sound as if we're going on one of those mad tours of the Underground where they show you where all the street artists do their, er, work, and you’re dodging pools of piss and all the whole time.”
“Underground?” Mycroft's eyebrows climbed high. “Oh, no … not underground. That I can assure you.”
Greg wondered, as he finally bid Mycroft goodbye and headed back to New Scotland Yard, why he felt somewhat less than assured by Mycroft's assertion? He gave it a bit of thought before saying sod it all. They could be going bloody mushroom picking, and he'd be content. He had a date with the man, and that was all that mattered.
(*)
Greg recalled one night, a year or two prior when he’d been just settling into his new bachelor flat and having a bit of trouble sleeping. It wasn’t that he’d not been used to sleeping alone – he’d been doing that a full year before the ink on the divorce decree had dried – it was just having to get used to so much all at once: the end of his marriage, Sherlock’s “death,” the investigation that surrounding the Moriarty/Brook mess. Telly had been the only saving grace, and on the sleepless nights, he’d click through channels, trying to find something interesting enough to engage his mind and tire him out.
He’d stumbled on Doctor Who on this particular night and had been startled to find a face remarkably like his staring back at him. He was not the largest fan of the series, but he’d watched, enthralled, as this character – an early 20th century big game hunter and playboy plying both those trades on the African plains – went on tripping along with the Doctor on an adventure. There were other details – something about spaceships, dinosaurs, large weapons and a gorgeous and resourceful queen who ended up being charmed by the explorer at the end, and taming him a bit, as well – but the finer points had long since faded from Greg’s memory.
What Lestrade most remembered about this character that looked like a tanner, greyer, slightly heavier version of himself capering about with a very large weapon in his hand, was his clothing. He wore what probably had been standard-issue attire for a gentleman of the Edwardian era living in hot and humid climes: jodhpurs, vest, suit jacket, broad-brimmed hat and boots, all in neutral colors ranging from cream to sand.
Greg recalled that he'd felt overly warm just looking at the bloke, and he noticed the man never seemed to sweat. Greg assumed that living in such a climate and opting to observe the social niceties of the day, he just dealt with it and his body had adjusted. He was sure that quite a few Britons living in Africa had done just that over the centuries.
Though it had been many months since that night, that strange, fictional doppelganger suddenly sprang to mind as Greg mopped sweat from his brow and slogged through the underbrush of what looked – and felt – like an Amazonian rainforest at high noon. Meaty leaves smacked at his exposed skin and he felt wetness trickling down from his nape and racing down to pool at the small of his back. He had to fight not to brush away the light, feathery touches he felt on his arms from time to time, as he knew that doing so might result in catastrophe, and as the signs sternly proclaimed, he watched where he was walking, continuously.
And up ahead, looking cool and unruffled, was Mycroft Holmes, dressed as casually as Greg supposed his wardrobe allowed. He found it somewhat amusing and disconcerting that Mycroft’s attire somewhat echoed that of the explorer’s, though the jodhpurs weren’t in evidence, at least. Nor was the hat.
Greg decided that he fancied Mycroft’s kit much better than he had Mr. Big Game Hunter’s. He wore a pair of beige linen dress trousers and a snowy dress shirt with a few buttons open, exposing the smooth line of his elegant neck. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and the stark white of the material brought out the patches of freckles that spiraled up his forearms. His shoes were unremarkable, except that they were almost certainly imported Italian loafers that cost more than two months’ pay for a Detective Chief Inspector.
But more amazing than the clothes themselves, was how after nearly a half-hour in the steamy confines of the observatory, Mycroft still looked immaculate. There wasn’t a smudge or sweat stain to be seen – in fact, Mycroft seemed to thrive in the heated atmosphere. His normally pallid face had a healthy flush to it that made his eyes appear almost the same startling shade of blue as Sherlock’s, which, in turn, picked up the russet and auburn tones in his dark hair and accentuated the pattern of freckles on his cheeks. He seemed, Greg thought, nearly a decade younger in these surroundings.
Greg reckoned it was a good job that he was sweating so much already, because it meant that the line of drool would be indistinguishable from the rest of the wetness on his face. Mycroft Holmes looked dishy as hell, and Greg would have enjoyed imagining peeling him out of those decadently relaxed togs and seeing how far those freckles and that adorable flush extended down his body – if he weren’t as sodden as a set of flannels left out in the rain.
He was wiping his brow again when Mycroft turned and gestured toward a clearing just on the other side of a set of climbing vines.
“There’s a bench just through here, Gregory. Shall we stop here a minute?”
Greg tried not to pant as he caught up to him. He could tell from the skin on the backs of his hands that he was red as a beet, and try as he might, he couldn’t quite keep up with the sweat that had continually beaded up on his brow and upper lip from the moment they stepped into this muggy, sticky wonderland. His crewneck was soaked and his pants were beginning to feel uncomfortably damp. He was proud that at least his khakis were fairly dry, though those, too, were beginning to become dotted with sweat.
“No, it’s alright.” Greg took a deep breath of the humid air and tried to smile. “I think I’m getting used to the temperature now.”
Mycroft eyed him, and smiled gently.
“Yes, the body tends to regulate itself rather quickly in these conditions. But, I had hoped we could sit here for a moment in any case? According to the brochure, this is the best area in the entire observatory to see the Red Lacewings, and I’ve been wanting to see another one since my last visit to Kuala Lumpur.”
“Oh. Sure. Sounds good.” Greg hoped he didn’t sound too relieved, but Mycroft’s responding grin made him realize that he’d not quite managed it.
They ducked under the vines and over one of the many irrigation areas that kept the place supplied with water for its inhabitants and added to the heaviness in the air. An empty bench was indeed waiting for them on the other side and Greg sank down gratefully after following Mycroft’s lead in dusting off the seat.
“So, uh … Red Lacewings, yeah?” Greg flipped through the brochure he clutched in a damp hand. “Oh, here we go. Umm … right. Native of Southeast Asia. Latin name is umm … I’m gonna butcher the pronunciation, probably, sorry. Cethosa biblis? … Likes sweet fruit juices and nectar.”
Greg instinctively looked up, but with all the activity in the air around them, it was hard to distinguish anything.
“The brochure does mention the unique patterning on the underside of its wings – your pronunciation was perfect, by the way – resembling a choir of singers,” said Mycroft, taking out a white handkerchief and swabbing his throat with it.
Greg couldn’t see any sweat, and he wondered if Mycroft really needed a dry-off or if he was showing some sort of solidarity with Greg’s plight.
“But I think that the most interesting characteristic of the Red Lacewing is its attraction to people. You may see one land on you, in fact.”
Lestrade grimaced. “If they’re attracted to sweet things, I think they might skip me, actually.” He looked down at himself in dismay. In retrospect, it probably would have been a good idea to double up on the deodorant.
In retrospect, it probably would have been a good idea to do a bit more research on the entire outing. Greg could admit that immediately after leaving Whitehall after successfully securing a date with Mycroft Holmes, hardly any other thought outside of official business entered his mind. Sally had caught him daydreaming a couple of times over his coffee, but he’d waved her off with the age-old excuse of tiredness and dismay at the amount of paperwork under which he was buried. He’d checked his mobile almost every 15 minutes, waiting for that magic moment when Mycroft would end the suspense for once and all about their destination.
In between obsessively checking his phone, Greg had hunted up some past Time Out articles listing current museum installations, plays, concerts, lectures and readings and tours happening in and around London. Just to be on the safe side, he pulled up the schedules of all 13 professional football teams in the city, though he was almost entirely sure that seeing a match was not on the agenda. He was able to do a cursory glance at some events that were likely to interest Mycroft, and he felt confident that he’d be able to handle whatever outing he had in mind.
And in thinking that, Greg had quite forgotten that he was dealing with a bloody Holmes.
When the text had come, a day later, Lestrade had simply stared. In the intervening hours between his invitation and Mycroft’s confirmation, Greg had bitten his fingernails to the quick, paced his office more times than he cared to admit, and endured Sherlock being huffy at a crime scene and eyeing him with vague suspicion. And as happy as he was that Mycroft apparently had not had second thoughts about their date, he initially hadn’t been quite sure that the man was being on the level with him.
After all … a butterfly house? And Mycroft Holmes? The only more unlikely pairing Greg could think of was possibly the Duke of Edinburgh and a Speedo.
Lestrade had never had any personal experience with such things outside of knowing they existed. He’d always thought they were either dainty little closet-like rooms where a child could have a birthday party and play amongst fluttering companions. He knew the London Zoo had a butterfly house, but he’d never really been keen on visiting, and he also remembered that there’d been a rather sizable one up in Brentford that had been torn down to make way for a posh hotel.
Aside from all of that, other than noticing, on occasion, a brightly colored butterfly cooling its wings on a flower in a nearby park, Greg had never given the creatures a second thought.
And Mycroft wanted to spend their first date surrounded by them.
“Ah! Here’s a pair now!” Mycroft’s voice held a note of excitement, and Greg blushed when he put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you see on that ridge? They are about to drink from one of the Passiflora cochinchinensis there.”
Greg followed Mycroft’s other hand, which was waving toward a nearby ledge along which grew large, round flowers with spindly purple tendrils surrounding thick, green stalks. Greg had to smile at the sight of two medium-sized butterflies, alighting on the middle flower. He could just see the splotch of red on the wings of one, but the other had its wings folded up, so that Greg could see only a hint of greyish brown, with black spots.
“Are you sure they’re both the same, uh, kind?” asked Greg, squinting. “It’s hard for me to match ‘em up with what the pamphlet has when their wings aren’t open.”
“Very true, but in this case, it is quite easy to tell that these are both Red Lacewings. The patterning on the ventral side is distinctive and it is additionally distinctive between the male and the female. The one on the left in closed-wing stance is the female. The patterning on the male is generally bright orange or red with white spots. It looks as if they’re fueling up for a prolonged mating session.”
Greg stared at the two creatures, discreetly pinching himself to dismiss the thought that he might actually be envious of a pair of butterflies because they were likely about to have more sex in the next five minutes then he’d had in the three years since his divorce.
“At least these aren’t that hard to spot,” said Greg. “But the brochure said a lot of butterflies have a natural camouflage or at least the ability to do that. Guess it’s not true for all types, eh?”
“Oh, no, actually, the patterning on the Red Lacewing’s dorsal side is camouflage,” answered Mycroft. “They resemble foliage when in closed-wing stance, and the bright colors scare off predators. In their native habitat, anything brightly colored is generally poisonous, and predators are aware of that. The Red Lacewing isn’t poisonous itself, but it would not be a pleasant mouthful. The flower from which it gets its nectar almost always comes from the Passiflora species. That family of plants is highly toxic, which is why the staff has taken care to ensure it is out the reach for all except those who use it for nourishment.”
Greg glanced up toward the clear planes of glass that enclosed the observatory and saw that they were almost obscured by thousands of creatures flying through the air. When he looked again at where the Red Lacewings had gathered, he the noted that the two butterflies had seemed to drink their fill and were flying away, the male racing after the female. Looking for a quiet place, maybe, to get better acquainted.
Greg grinned a bit. Right. Good luck with that, mate.
“Do you wish to move on?” asked Mycroft. “Or we can sit here for a moment more, if you like. We may see a few Blue Tigers, but they are likely to be a bit further in, where the Jatropha trees are located.”
“Sure. We can move it along,” Greg said as a weary couple stumbled through the hanging vines and looked as if they might challenge him and Mycroft to hand-to-hand combat for the bench. The backs of his thighs felt a little clammy, but the short pause had seemed to help his lungs further adjust to the moist air. He hoped that meant he’d be able to keep up with Mycroft’s long-legged strides without gasping for breath.
“Gets more, er, tropical as we get toward the middle, yeah?”
“That’s right.” Mycroft looked grave as Lestrade slowly got to his feet. “We can take a break, Gregory. Go to the insectarium, perhaps. Or the garden outside. Someplace a bit more … temperate.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine,” said Greg as they walked along, passing under an archway of hanging vines. “A little sweat’s good for you – well, a lot of sweat, in my case. I want to know how you’re managing to stay so cool and dry.”
“Hmm. My brother has often remarked that by some quirk of nature, I might genuinely be cold-blooded.”
“Sherlock says a lot of things,” said Greg with a grimace, rubbing the back of his neck. “And he needs to be chinned for most of them, usually.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Having a good time?”
“I am.” Greg looked over at Mycroft, smiling. “A very good time.”
“Is it about what you expected?”
Greg stopped in mid-rub. “Uh, well, I really wasn’t sure what to expect, actually.”
“Ah. I did figure as much during the phone call.”
Greg made a wry face at the memory of the phone call. Not one of his smoothest moments. Mycroft, apparently sensing that something was amiss after having sent the initial text, had rung him to discuss … things.
… We can do something more to your liking. Perhaps tennis? A game of pool? There’s a very nice pub –
… No. I mean. This is … fine. It is. Really. Just the tickets to the butterfly house then? There’re a couple of lectures that I think are extra.
… Gregory, really. This was a mistake. There’s bound to be some new superhero film out. I think they will be releasing one or two a year until 2055.
… I’m serious, if this is where you want to go, we’ll go. I guess I’m just a little surprised. Are you … into butterflies then?
…
… Mycroft?
… I had – have – an … affinity for them, yes. It started when I was a child. I had a modest collection at one time.
… What, one of those corkboards where you, ah, stick the bugs there with a pin?
… No, I wasn’t a collector. It didn’t agree with me. What I mean to say is, I raised quite a few from eggs, through the larval stages. When they emerged from their chrysalises, I would release them into the wild.
… Oh. You did all this in your house? Must have been a treat for parents – and for Sherlock.
… Sherlock found butterflies boring. He accompanied me a few times on my collection trips to find viable eggs, but he found it tedious and thought butterflies of no moment. He became enamored of bees because he felt that they had something more to offer than just … beauty.
… That’s not true, is it?
… Pardon?
… Sherlock was being a prat, it sounds like. It’s not true that looks are all a butterfly has to offer, right?
… Quite so. They are extremely efficient in pollinating plants and in fact their lengthy proboscis allows them to access flowers bees cannot. And they are lightweight enough to land on the most delicate of plants. They also help maintain the health of the ecosystem, as their larvae help to regulate plant growth. And certain genera under the Hedyloidea suborder are exploited in the making of silk – but those aren’t properly butterflies, of course. What they don’t do is produce an edible byproduct, though the eggs and the larvae are the primary food of many different animals – bats, swallows, some frogs ...
…
… Gregory? Are you still there?
Greg had been somewhat surprised at how aroused he'd become hearing Mycroft talk so … sciencey to him. It was a switch. Sherlock did it all the time, but it generally had to do with decomposing bodies with the occasional departure into blood spatter and cigar ash.
But Mycroft usually spoke the clipped, alien language of the bureaucrat, peppered with discussions on protocol, allusions to regulations, and vaguely threatening acronyms. As he'd listened to him give his quick primer on the butterfly, Greg hadn't the slightest clue what Mycroft was actually talking about, but he could hear the warm sibilance underlying the words, the gloss of enthusiasm that even his crappy mobile couldn’t quite disguise.
Mycroft Holmes was into butterflies. He was really into butterflies. And hearing him talk about a subject that so moved him was hot as hell.
Greg surfaced from the memory, running his fingers through his damp fringe. “Well, I suppose I was a little …”
He trailed off as a troop of giggling primary-school-age children in matching camp T-shirts surged around them, pursued by two weary-looking adult supervisors wearing shirts with STAFF written in yellow over the front pockets. They gathered around a flowering bush, the kids impatiently shifting from one foot to another as one of the adults read aloud from the brochure. A few of the more enterprising children were squatting down, palms on thighs, trying to peer into the bush, but keeping enough distance to obey the signs that prohibited any handling of the observatory’s inhabitants. The companion of the person reading didn’t seem to be listening, either. He was looking round the cavernous space wide-eyed and open-mouthed, which – considering their surroundings – was probably not the best idea.
It was something to see, Greg had to admit. The Highgate Butterfly Sanctuary was the reincarnation of the Brentwood sanctuary, but spread out over a much wider space than its predecessor. It consisted not only of the observatory, but also an outdoor butterfly “garden,” a pavilion that doubled as a lecture hall and a venue for weddings and those kids’ parties that had first sprung to Greg’s mind when Mycroft had first divulged their planned destination, a theatre that showed a short film on the life and times of several butterfly species, an exhibit hall that housed a fairly sizable insectarium, and The Aerie, a rather posh-looking restaurant with a from-above view of the action in the observatory. Right across from the exhibit hall, there was a more accessible, open-air and family friendly cafeteria with appropriately bug-inspired cuisine – minus the actual insects. At least, Greg hoped that was true.
“I am enjoying myself, as well,” said Mycroft as they skirted the crowd. “I admit I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. It is impressive.”
The admission startled Greg. “You mean you’ve never been here before?”
“No.” Mycroft gave him a puzzled look. “I didn’t mention that?”
“No. I thought …” Greg’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “I guess I just assumed … you seemed so keen to come here, I thought it was a place you really fancied.”
“Ah.” Mycroft seemed to think that one syllable settled matters. He inclined his head toward a small bush dotted with rust-colored flowers. “I think we’ll find some Orange Julias in this area.”
Greg wondered if Mycroft was the only man in the world who could utter a sentence like that and not sound like an absolute buffoon. A rustling sound cut into his musings, and Lestrade reared back in alarm. As if by prearranged signal, the “flowers” on the small bush had shot off like lightning and gathered round him in a cloud, one very nearly flying into his nose.
“Fu—”
Greg just managed to not slap at his chest and neck. The solemn signs warning against touching the inhabitants of the conservatory for any reason flashed into his mind, and he felt his heel catch on one of the tubes spraying water into the air at regular intervals. The creatures, likely sensing that they were very close to mortal danger, soon went on their way.
Mycroft’s cool, dry hand landed on his shoulder again, steadying him before he could fall on his arse right into one of the butterflies’ main watering holes.
“Gregory, are you all right?”
“Yeah.” Greg bit his lip in regret when Mycroft let him go. He wanted that hand back where it was. Or lower – whichever was most convenient.
“That was just, er, unexpected.”
“They startle easily,” said Mycroft. “Unlike the Red Lacewings, Orange Julias tend to be somewhat antisocial. They usually are good about avoiding anything that does not look or smell like a flower.”
“Not sure what that was about, then. I don’t reckon I look or smell very flowery.” Greg’s voice was grim. “In this heat, I think my cologne’s been diluted by all the sweat.”
When Mycroft turned to him, Greg was sure it was to make some scientifically astute point about how butterflies’ scent receptors were in their legs because their noses were too busy poking about in flowers and such for pollen. It was to his great surprise, therefore, when Mycroft instead leaned close to him, his nose nearly touching his neck, and inhaled deeply. It had to be several billion degrees inside the enclosure, but Greg shivered when he felt Mycroft’s breath puff against his sweat-slick skin. The angle at which his head was tilted allowed Greg to notice a line of freckles curving round the shell of his left ear.
“Hmm, no.” Mycroft straightened after a moment. “Cedar?”
“Uh, what?” Greg was still dazed from the realization that Mycroft bloody Holmes had nearly had his face in his neck.
“I detect cedar among the top notes of your cologne. Western red, would be my guess.”
“If I say it is, will you do that again and see what else you can reckon out?” Greg chewed his bottom lip. “You don’t have to rush through it, you know.”
Mycroft’s eyes darted around somewhat nervously, but he smiled.
“Perhaps later? In an area with a bit less of a crowd?”
Greg wondered what Mycroft would say if he suggested his bedroom. For going on a couple of years, it had been one of the emptiest places in London.
“I can’t tell you what this is, except that I grabbed it off some shelf at M&S last time I was there. It might have had ‘Red’ in the name, come to that, and some bloke on a horse, maybe?” Greg squinted, as if trying to surface the image of the bottle from the jumbled filters of his brain.
“And you don’t fancy it a great deal.”
A faint line appeared between Greg’s eyes. “What makes you think that?”
“Potency,” answered Mycroft. “In general, once it is opened, a bottled scent loses a bit of its punch the older it becomes. There are variables such as the area in which it is stored, and the raw ingredients themselves, of course. I can tell that you didn’t just buy it recently, but you haven’t uncorked it very much in the time in which you have had it, so I can only assume you don’t care for the scent very much.”
Greg gaped at Mycroft for a moment. His jaw would have dropped, he reckoned, if he weren’t cognizant of the potential for something to fly into it.
“That’s incredible.”
“Not at all. Quite simple to deduce, really.”
“No, I mean I don’t think I’ve ever heard you get something wrong before.”
Mycroft’s head jerked up. “I’m sorry?”
He looked so utterly and adorably befuddled, that Greg had to smile. He didn’t usually get the chance to crow over Sherlock, much less Mycroft, and while he didn’t want to rub it in, he couldn’t help but feel a bit chuffed at getting one past a Holmes.
“It’s true I haven’t used much of this, but it’s not because I don’t fancy it,” said Greg. “I’m usually rushing about in the morning to get to work, and it’s enough to fit in showering, shaving and getting my kit on before I have to head out the door. Plus, Donovan usually rides along with me to crime scenes and she’s not keen on strong scents. Gives her a headache. I only put this on when I want to make a good impression, because I’m thinking about things more: what to wear, how my hair looks, all that, and it comes to mind. So I’ve only splashed it on when I’ve had to go to court – which hasn’t been in a good while since the whole Moriarty mess got sorted – and, on dates. And there haven’t been too many of those.”
His smile dimmed a bit when he looked into Mycroft’s face and saw it happen.
Blinkblinkblink. Blink. Pause. Blinkblink. Pause. Blink.
Greg held back a sigh. Right, Lestrade. Might be good to not break the bloke on your first date, yeah?
But Mycroft seemed to get himself together fairly quickly. He took a step back and scanned Greg from head to toe.
“Of course. My apologies.” Mycroft made a vague motion with his hand. “I’m a bit distracted.”
“Right. Hard not to be in a place like this.” Greg smiled again, wanting to recapture some of the easy camaraderie that had been brewing between them. “Do you fancy a bite to eat? I’m starving and I think I’ve lost nearly a stone in water since we’ve come in here.”
Mycroft smiled back, looking relieved at the change in topic. “I think that might be a good idea. Do you want to adjourn to the garden snack bar for some fresh air? Or would you rather the restaurant?”
Greg looked around, spotting a sign with one arrow pointing toward a dark corridor leading toward the gardens and insectarium and another toward a lift that would toward the restaurant. He noticed, too, a line of children sprinting down the corridor toward the gardens, ignoring their exhausted minders’ calls to slow down.
“I think the restaurant might be less noisy.”
“Very likely. And the cuisine might be a bit more interesting than hot dogs and cheese toasties in the shape of chrysalises.”
Greg made a face. “I can’t even picture that.”
“Good. Don’t try, or you’ll lose your appetite.”
Mycroft was smirking as he led Greg to the lift. Greg grinned back, glad that the awkwardness was easing up a bit and relieved that he’d be able to get off his feet and out of the jungle for a good hour, at least.
(*)
The food in The Aerie wasn’t as adventurous as Greg expected. There was no insect-infused cuisine and not even any dishes with cute, bug puns in the names. It was a rather nice restaurant and they were served on plates that had pictures of different butterflies on them, but that was the only hint, really, that they were having lunch inside a butterfly enclosure. Well, that and the glass dome.
The clear, bubble-like structure jutted out over a ledge that let them see most of the activity below. There was a fair amount of activity above, too, and all around them, as multicolored creatures flitted around the dome, never settling on it for very long, creating a surreal, almost reverse-snow globe effect that was rather charming and much less like the “insects splattering on the windshield” that Greg had feared. And, the best part was that the place was climate-controlled.
In this pleasant atmosphere, Greg and Mycroft ate pasta and chatted about all they’d seen. As Mycroft spoke, Greg found himself nodding along, swept along by the other man’s enthusiasm and vast knowledge on the subject. Greg was also somewhat surprised to note that he was able to follow some of the points Mycroft was making. He supposed that he was absorbing some of Mycroft’s knowledge by some sort of osmosis.
“You know so much about this place,” said Greg, reaching for his wine. “I’m still shocked this is your first time here.”
“When I heard about the plan to build it, I thought it might be a bit too commercial. The Brentwood space was smaller and not quite as … full on. It attracted the occasional tourist, but it was known as more of a research facility,” said Mycroft. “I was surprised they opted to rebuild it at all. There are other options in the area. The London Zoo, for example, has a fine butterfly exhibit with all the bells and whistles that is also quite educational. However, I maintain that it’s best to observe butterflies in their natural habitat.”
“Have you done a lot of that, then?” asked Greg. “You had mentioned seeing a few ah … Red Lacewings in, ah … Malaysia, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. That was some years ago, and it was a flying visit – pardon the ghastly pun – so I didn’t spend anywhere near the amount of time I would have liked. It has been some time since I’ve had the opportunity to really go out and observe any specimens in their native areas.”
“Is there a place you’d like to go that you haven’t yet?”
Mycroft tilted his head, thinking. “Vegas, perhaps.”
Greg stared. “Vegas? Las Vegas? Casinos and Elvis-country?”
“The very same. There is a small preserve right outside the city that serves as a habitat for the Mount Charleston blue butterfly, one of the rarest specimens in the world,” said Mycroft. “Fewer than 100 remain in the wild and it is hoped that they’ll be encouraged to breed now that they are on ostensibly protected land.”
“That’s amazing,” murmured Lestrade. “And it’s amazing that you know all of this. You said you were a kid when you first got interested in butterflies. Did you chase after ‘em with one of those nets?”
Mycroft fidgeted. “Well … not exactly.”
“Oh, come on, there weren’t any nets even?” Greg’s tone registered disappointment. “In all the magazines and adverts I’ve seen where there’s a sprog chasing a butterfly, they’ve had one of those huge nets upraised and were running up some hillside trying to catch it. It’s bloody adorable!”
“I can assure you nothing like that ever took place.” Mycroft said dryly. “I was not keen on legwork, even at a young age. I did have an aerial net, as I did initially try my hand at collecting but found I wasn’t suited. I didn’t much fancy the collection process and all it entailed if the end result was only to have pretty specimens to stare at. I much preferred raising butterflies. Watching them emerge from their chrysalises was always the high point of the process for me.”
Greg recalled all of Sherlock’s dire pronouncements about Mycroft’s “minor post” in the British government. To hear the younger Holmes tell it, his brother needed only to push a button to cause several countries to cease to exist. Listening to Mycroft discuss the enjoyment he’d received from watching life emerge rather than destroy it for his own pleasure was in and of itself a nice treat.
“How did this get started? I mean, how did you get interested?” asked Lestrade. “Were you out one day and saw a butterfly and it sparked something, or …?” He let the sentence trail off, hoping that he didn’t sound as if he were being flippant.
“As with most things in my life, my interest began with a book.” Mycroft paused to take another sip of wine. “You’ve no doubt heard Sherlock’s less-than-subtle hints that I once had a weight problem?”
“Yeah.” Greg’s gaze lingered on powerful shoulders contained by fine linen and traveled up to the sculpted, aristocratic profile. “I always reckoned he only did that to be a dick.”
“Perhaps. But he was accurate,” said Mycroft. “I was quite heavy through adolescence – at which point, a well-timed growth spurt took over and I ceased to be a bit less … round. But as a child, I battled the bulge, so to speak. I was never much for socializing, even then, so I had very few friends. Ginger hair, freckles and a chubby body did not provide entrée into the ‘in’ crowd.”
Greg tried to keep his expression neutral, but he couldn’t help but picture a round-faced, mini-Mycroft with flaming hair and a face full of freckles. Mycroft’s own expression was disinterested, but Greg could hear a sadness underlying his words. It sounded as if he’d had a lonely childhood, and considering the brain Mycroft must have had even then, it must have made him feel even more isolated.
“I had my parents to myself for six and three-fourths years,” Mycroft went on. “They indulged me possibly a bit too much, and then attempted to make amends for that when they saw that I wasn’t making many friends in school. My mother had left off her teaching to look after me – and, later, Sherlock – but she kept up her writing. She was working on her third book when she introduced me to The Very Hungry Caterpillar.”
“The Very Hungry Caterpillar?” Greg gnawed his lip. “That’s a book then?”
“It is. A picture book,” said Mycroft. “It was published the year before my birth, in fact, and a bit … facile for what my reading level was at the time. Generally my mother left me to my own devices in that regard, but I think that she had occasion to witness my being bullied about my weight by some of the neighborhood children. She never admitted it, but the signs were there. She took me aside one day and insisted on reading it to me. I was five.”
“So this was a book about caterpillars and butterflies?”
“It was about one particular caterpillar. A very hungry one.” Mycroft smiled as he retreated into the memory. “It was a reader designed to teach certain concepts – days of the week, counting, the life cycle of the butterfly, and so on. The basic premise was that there was a caterpillar that had an enormous appetite and a rather unusual diet. As you’ve seen here, most butterflies subsist on nectar – and do not ‘eat,’ as such, at all, but drink. Caterpillars are a bit different. They do eat quite a lot in the time from which they hatch until the enter the chrysalis stage. They subsist on leaves, which contain enough water so that they do not have to drink. The caterpillar in this book seemed to have a penchant for sweets – ice cream, cupcakes, pie … it was quite a list. The book itself was constructed in a very unusual fashion. There was a ‘morsel’ taken out of each page to indicate where the caterpillar had taken his bite of food. It added an interactive quality to what was a simple, and impossible, story. I found myself intrigued in spite of myself.”
“I feel like I missed out,” Greg pouted good-naturedly. “At that age, I got a lot of Topsy and Tim and Ainsworth Readers.”
“Well, those had their appeal, too.” Mycroft smiled. “At any rate, after the caterpillar went on its eating spree, it found it had a very bad stomach ache from overeating and had to wait a bit to recover. When he felt better, he spun a cocoon – a chrysalis, really, as this was not a moth we’re talking about – in which he remained for a fortnight, and then emerged from it a beautiful butterfly.”
“A happy ending.” Greg smiled. “Good one.”
“Indeed. I always suspected that my mother saw it more as a morality tale,” said Mycroft. “A gentle way of telling me that overindulging had consequences, but that if one checked himself in time, all wasn’t lost. I did, in fact, curtail my intake of sweets shortly after the first time I read the book.”
Greg lifted an eyebrow. “The first time?”
“It became something of a favorite story of mine,” said Mycroft, blushing lightly. “The illustrations were quite lovely, and the unorthodox construction of the book intrigued me. It was also gratifying to come the ‘happy ending,’ as you term it. That a commonplace creature could, at some point, transform into something so beautiful. It made me think that perhaps all was not lost, as regarded my own appearance."
"Yeah." Greg's voice was low as he gave Mycroft another long look. "I'd say you were pretty spot-on with that."
"Ah. Well. ... Thank you." Mycroft lowered his eyes briefly, fiddling with his fork. "As a result, I became quite interested in real butterflies. Fortunately for me, when my mother became pregnant with Sherlock, my Grandfather Jerome came to stay with us. He was a rather taciturn man, born and bred in the North Devon countryside. I’m not sure if Sherlock has spoken much about our mother’s side of the family?”
“Er, to tell you the truth, besides you, Sherlock hasn’t really talked about his family at all. At least not to me,” said Greg. “Not to be rude, but I didn’t even know your mum and dad were … uh … still with us until John and Mary’s engagement party. John mentioned he met them at Sherlock’s flat, but didn’t even know it was them until they were gone.”
“I can’t say I’m very surprised, though I thought Sherlock would have at least mentioned our great-great-great uncle, whose namesake he is, in part,” said Mycroft. “He was something of an amateur sleuth in his day. And you must get Sherlock to talk to you about our Uncle Rudy sometime. That is a story worth hearing.”
Greg was wondering at the sly smile that accompanied those words, but Mycroft continued:
“Grandfather Jerome had little in the way of ‘formal’ education, but like many people considered ‘deficient’ in that area, he had an innate intelligence and an admirably direct way of going about things. He saw me one night reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar. He chided my mother for filling my head with ‘such idiotic claptrap’ and said if I wanted to see real butterflies, we’d go into the wooded area behind my parents’ home. Having grown up in the country, he was acquainted with all manner of insect life. He showed me how to find likely egg nests, how to collect the eggs, the different hallmarks of the larval stages, and so on.
“He was quite adamant that no caterpillar anywhere ever ate a slice of cake or a Cumberland sausage, though I was well aware of that point by that time. We’d spend hours in the woods, collecting, observing, talking. He had a vast knowledge of the butterfly species native to my … neck of the woods. It was under his watchful eye that I successfully raised my first crop – lovely Chequered Skippers. They’re extinct now, and I will always remember watching them pupate and the first emerging from their chrysalises.”
Greg watched the play of emotions across Mycroft’s face and had to forcibly keep himself from reaching over and pulling Mycroft over the table by his immaculate shirt and giving him a snog that would fog up the restaurant’s glass dome.
“Seems like a nice memory.” Greg’s voice was soft. “Your granddad sounds like he was a good bloke.”
“He was certainly interesting. We had little to talk about other than butterflies. He stayed with us until Sherlock was two, after which time he moved back to Devon to live with a maiden sister and died soon after. I rather think he enjoyed that time in the outdoors as much as I did – while it lasted.” Mycroft smiled a bit wistfully. “He planted the seed that grew into a lifelong appreciation. I never fancied a career as a Lepidopterist as I’ve always felt that turning a hobby into a career is the quickest path to misery.”
“I think you’re right about that. At least that’s what I told myself when I realized that I wasn’t going to be the next Gary Lineker.”
“Just as well. I always felt he was a tad overrated. I preferred Ian Wright, myself.”
“Hey, so did I, come to that!” Greg grinned and happily scooped up the last of his pasta. “Well, butterfly raising and watching sounds like it’s been a really fulfilling hobby for you. I have to say it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than being surrounded by bees. Sherlock’s missing out.”
“You’ll find no disagreement there from me.” Mycroft dabbed at his mouth. “Have you ever seen a butterfly emerge from its chrysalis? Outside of the occasional nature shows on television, I mean.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that even on there,” answered Greg. “My telly viewing habits aren’t really that, erm, educational.”
“In that case, I think a visit to the insectarium might be in order –”
Mycroft raised his hand to signal for the check and made a low noise of surprise when Greg pressed the hand down with his palm, shaking his head.
“I asked you out, remember? I pay for lunch.” Greg gave a friendly leer. “I’m a bit old-fashioned that way.”
“I … see. Apologies.” Mycroft looked at where Greg’s hand still rested on his. “Though, there might be some who would raise an eyebrow at the idea of two men, just shy of middle age, on a date to a butterfly preserve being in any way … traditional.”
“Probably.” Greg gave Mycroft’s hand a small squeeze. “But I don’t reckon I’ll be dating any of those types anytime soon.”
Mycroft just smiled in reply. Greg tried not to read too much into the fact that Mycroft didn’t move his hand until after the server had come to collect payment and had deposited the receipt and Greg’s charge card back on the table.
(*)
Greg was a bit surprised that the insectarium seemed so sparsely attended. He had reckoned that the draw of “creepy-crawlies” would be irresistible to some of the younger visitors. He wasn’t complaining, however. The insectarium, which took up much of the ground floor of the exhibit hall, was much cooler and drier than the butterfly enclosure.
He and Mycroft wandered along the rows of mounts, displays and exhibitions, both deciding to forgo a visit to a “cockroach kitchen” and grinning at each other when they saw signs pointing visitors toward a real, live working beehive. There was a petting zoo and a life-size spider web that they perused quickly, and Greg wondered just how many “pets” went home each day from the petting zoo. He shivered a little when Mycroft remarked that it was more probable that some of the insects “hitched a ride” out of the preserve.
Their destination was located just beyond an area where a small crowd had gathered to watch certain insects being fed their leafy meals. They were alone in that section of the exhibition hall and paused at a little glassed-in cubby overgrown with dark twigs and green foliage. Greg peered with great curiosity into the well-lit space. There were many butterflies fluttering in the small enclosure, a few crawling on leaves.
“Ah, here we are. This way, Gregory.”
Mycroft took Greg’s arm and guided him over to an area of the cubby to which a magnifying lens was attached and a sign above it inviting visitors to see the marvel of butterflies taking wing for the first time.
Mycroft bent forward to look through the lens, and after a few seconds, he stepped back with a satisfied nod.
“Yes, there is a mature adult beginning to eclose. Look to your left.”
Greg took Mycroft’s place at the magnifying station and looked in. The lens was focused on what appeared to be the underside of a plant to which several pale, lumpy structures were attached. Greg could make out the outline of wings just behind the opaque membranes, and he stared at the area to his left, watching avidly but not seeing very much.
“May I?”
It took Greg a moment to realize Mycroft was asking him to budge over so that he could have a look, too. He happily complied, though there wasn’t a great deal of personal space between them. Greg decided that if Mycroft wasn’t complaining, he wouldn’t either.
“So it’s got to break, I reckon,” said Greg, hoping to distract himself from the realization that he could feel the lean muscles of Mycroft’s outer thigh pressed against his own. “How, er, does it do that? Chew its way out?”
“Not exactly. Some specimens secrete a substance that softens the chrysalis enough to allow them to wriggle their way out. This particular chrysalis has a built-in weakness in the form of a zipper-like seam along the pupal cuticle. Do you notice it?”
Greg squinted. “I’m not – wait. I think I do. Looks sort of like a dashed line all the way down, yeah?”
“Precisely. And do you notice the movement? Even with the magnification it is a bit tough to see, but there are tiny holes on the surface of the cocoon. Those are called spiracles. They are the means by which oxygen is delivered all through the chrysalis stage, and they also play a key role in the mature butterfly’s emergence. As the butterfly prepares to make its grand entrance, air begins to fill the space between the pupal shell and the adult cuticle.”
Greg nodded. He could see what looked to be air bubbles just under the surface of the membrane. The structure was starting to tremble visibly, and Greg pressed his face forward as far as he could, watching keenly.
“Now the adult will start to breathe through the spiracles,” said Mycroft. “As it swallows the air, its body will expand. That will put pressure on the pupal seam and split it open. It will then be able to crawl out on its own.
They watched together in silence. Greg felt a tug of anticipation at the pit of his stomach, and he was amazed that he was awaiting this event as if it were Aaron Ramsey queuing for a penalty kick. The creature within the shell seemed to give an impatient shake and Greg could see the edge of the chrysalis begin to split open and the tip of a brown wing spotted with black and white begin to unfurl.
“It’s starting – I think …”
“Yes. It shouldn’t be long now. The pupal cuticle is splitting open with almost surgical precision. Ah! And here we have it …”
Greg watched the creature, smaller than he would have thought, emerge rather rapidly from the translucent covering. It looked to struggle to break free at the last moment, but was able to pull away from the chrysalis, which was already starting to shrivel, forgotten. It spread its wings and crawled a bit unsteadily onto a nearby branch.
“It’s not flying.” Greg frowned. “Why? Is it hungry? Tired from having to do all that, uh, breathing?”
“No, it’s just that the wings are damp. They’ll need to dry before –”
Mycroft’s voice trailed off with a short, indrawn breath. Greg straightened quickly, looking over in alarm. The taller man was still hunched over, looking through the magnifying lens, but his mouth was trembling.
“Mycroft? Everything okay?”
“What? Oh. Er, yes. Yes of course. I was just noticing that this butterfly is a Liminitis camilla. A White Admiral.”
Greg’s brow knit. “Uh, is that … a rare one, then?”
“Hardly. They are quite common, generally in the southern part of the country.” Mycroft stood and smiled over at Greg. “They were among my Grandfather Jerome’s favorites. Once, after he’d returned from a trip to visit family, he brought me a number of larvae. I believe that was one of the first instances that, when the butterflies matured, he accompanied me when it was time to release them. I still remember that afternoon. It was …” His voice caught slightly. “It was … quite nice.”
Greg gazed at Mycroft, noticed the dark grey eyes had gone suspiciously shiny. Glancing over at the glass enclosure, Greg saw the newly emerged butterfly flapping its wings slowly, as if trying to get the hang of how they worked. Looking around, Greg noticed a quiet corner, somewhat removed from the exhibition space.
He inclined his head. “Could I see you over here for a minute?”
“What?” Mycroft looked confused as they walked over. “Is there something wrong, Gregory? Did you want to go to another part of the exhibition hall? The aquatic insects? Termite alley?”
“No.” Greg’s voice was grave. “But there is something I need to do before we leave here –”
“Oh, of course. I believe the men’s is around the corner and to the left.”
“Oh, for …” Greg huffed, reaching up to cup Mycroft’s face. “Look. You’ve shown me the intimate details of your hobby from the ground up. I even got to learn some Latin. And you told me about your favorite children’s book. And just now, the look on your face when you saw your granddad’s favorite butterfly coming into the world … I really can’t not kiss you at this point, you know? If that’s okay.”
“I … oh.” Mycroft swallowed hard. “Well, I …”
Blinkblinkblink. Blink. Pause. Blin –
Greg didn’t get farther than that, because Mycroft’s mouth was suddenly on his. Greg was caught off guard for the briefest second, because he hadn’t seen Mycroft move anything except his eyelashes and he wasn’t sure he’d moved, either, and yet there they were in the dimness, their mouths and bodies moving against each others, and that was all that mattered. Greg put his arms around Mycroft’s magnificent neck and pressed closer, able to feel the other man’s heartbeat through the improbably cool linen and a localized heat a bit lower down …
They broke apart at the sound of voices and footsteps heading their way and just managed to take a few steps apart when that group of campers with whom they’d been crossing paths all afternoon came noisily through, all of them jostling for a prime spot at the magnifying station. One of the adults bringing up the rear looked at them a bit suspiciously, but turned and said nothing as she wearily instructed one of the more rambunctious campers that they could not climb on the railings. Mycroft and Greg stood stiffly while the crowd filed by, but snuck glances at each other as they did so. They were as close to each other as they had been at the magnifying station, and Greg even fancied that Mycroft was leaning into him a little.
“Well.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Shall we move on?”
Greg looked over at Mycroft, scrutinizing him closely. He was breathing a bit heavily and there was a slight sheen on his forehead that had nothing to do with the lighting
“You’re sweating.”
“Am I?” Mycroft put a hand to his forehead. “Oh. It appears I am. Strange.”
“Yeah, especially considering that we’ve been more or less walking through a sauna most of the day and you didn’t sweat a drop.”
“Indeed. Strange.” Mycroft glanced down at himself. “I think I may have to change shirts. I feel a bit … clammy.”
“Me, too, come to that.” Greg pretended to think for a moment. “You know, my flat isn’t that far from here. I may have a shirt that’ll fit you.”
“Really? I don’t want to put you to any trouble … Gregory.”
Greg shivered. There times he hated his name and then there were times that he could truly picture what sex would sound like if it were a voice.
“No trouble at all.” Greg cleared his throat. “Unless there was something else here you wanted to see?”
“Not that I can think of.” Mycroft smiled at him, the grin lighting up his handsome face. “Thank you for such a lovely afternoon.”
“Thank you for showing me a better first date than I’ve had in ages,” said Greg, as he scouted the exit. “This was a lot of fun.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it, as well. And I must insist, if I do take one of your shirts, you must let me … recompense you in some way.”
Greg just smiled. He wondered what Mycroft would say when he learned that all of his shirts, save for the one he was wearing, were in the wash and wet through. Greg reckoned they would cross that bridge when they came to it.
Sometimes I slide away
Silently
I slowly lose myself
Over and over
Take comfort in my skin
Endlessly
Surrender to my will
Forever and ever
I dissolve in trust
I will sing with joy
I will end up dust
I'm in heaven
- Depeche Mode, “Heaven” (Delta Machine)