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The annual New Scotland Yard Christmas party would be the kind of event Greg would look forward to, if it didn’t involve so many “So, how’s your life going?” questions. He’s had years to get used to it, and nothing would be worse than the first holiday after his divorce when everyone wanted to set him up. It was not as forward now, but that didn’t mean it got any easier — he had just gotten better at dodging the awkward encounters and the pity looks, and diverting the prying through humour. Everyone asked how he was “holding on”, but no-one really wanted to hear how lonely he felt, especially around this time of the year.
Despite that, he loved Christmas, he really did. Ever since he had been a child. It was the one time when it was not seen as naive to be optimistic, when everyone was a bit more sentimental and there seemed to be a sort of elated faith going around. But the parties everyone insisted on throwing felt more like obligations now, things he showed up to because he couldn’t decline an invite and he didn’t want to seem rude. Tonight, he had to fulfill his role as the cheerful boss and put aside any hints of sadness that crept up slowly as Christmas approached.
Still, he never missed the Yard’s party. Not even now, when a lot of people who had started at the same time as him were retiring to be with their families, highlighting the fact that Greg’s life was nowhere close to what he had envisioned for his mid-50s. As the familiar faces disappeared from the force year by year, Greg enjoyed hearing his colleagues talk happily about their more peaceful personal lives, just as much as he enjoyed when the eager young recruits gushed about their escapades at the pub, making him feel like he was 30 again for a moment, living vicariously through them.
For the first half of the night he kept his spirit up, mingling and trying to blend in with the crowd. The conversations grew louder, and the windows were fogging up, making the air a little stuffy. Greg gratefully accepted a drink and took a moment to contemplate everyone there. The luckiest ones, who were starting their break the next day on Christmas Eve, were saying their goodbyes already. If he saw others, who still had to work until New Year’s, hitting the drinks a little too hard, then he didn’t say anything — waking up on the 24th with a hangover and having to drag their asses through the snow to get to the Met would be punishment enough.
Greg looked over the group that was crowding the make-shift bar they had precariously set up between two desks. The members of his team were hunched together in a corner, laughing and drawing funny faces in the steamed-up glass, like they were 13. Holdsworth and Wrigley were always up to no good, but it was a bit late now to check on whatever shenanigans they had gotten involved in.
While scanning the room, he spotted a familiar tall figure who for sure hadn’t been there when Greg was making the rounds, trying to be a good host and making small talk.
A few years ago, Greg had passed on the responsibility of handling the Christmas Party guest list to Maggie Clemons, a young officer with an excellent memory and remarkable organizational skills. Anyone would have done a better job than Greg himself, to be honest, especially after that one time he had forgotten to invite two of the main commissioners five years before.
“Cheer up, guv, they wouldn’t have come anyway,” Donovan had said to calm his stress, but she shared his same careless attitude towards office politics and manners, so her well-meant reassurance was a bit empty.
His boss hadn’t appreciated the oversight and chastised him for it the whole year, so now Greg had no clue who got invited and why. He only had to show up,be his charming self for a couple of hours, and leave before midnight. Heavens knew why Clemmons had had the brilliant idea of inviting Mycroft Holmes this year, or most bafflingly, why he had shown up.
If Greg had to take a guess, it was probably because of his sense of duty. Mycroft surely had a long list of holiday obligations and events where he was expected to be, but because he had needed the help of the Yard’s team before, he felt like he ought to show his face at least for a few minutes.
Although Greg knew Mycroft was never one to be seen in overly social gatherings, and honestly didn’t care much what the officers thought of him.
Greg wouldn’t say he and Mycroft were exactly friends, but he liked to believe that after more than ten years of knowing one another, he knew the indecipherable man a little, and that already put him over a lot of people who didn’t have a clue who Mycroft Holmes was. It made Greg feel inexplicably proud and special.
Perhaps Mycroft felt that as Sherlock usually came, he had to be there to keep a close eye on him. Greg wished Mycroft would let go of the self-imposed weight he put on his shoulders and at least not worry so much about his brother for once. Easier said than done, he knew it. Even if Sherlock had his life somehow in order now, in a happy relationship and basically a family man at this point, Greg still worried too. If he got a text asking him to go to Baker Street, Greg’s heart raced when he saw the name show up on his phone, even if it was just to pick up something or be invited to dinner. If Greg sometimes woke up in a cold sweat after a nightmare had made him re-live some of the worst memories with Sherlock, then expecting Mycroft to let go of his careful apprehension was asking too much of him.
A quick glance told Greg the tall consulting detective in question was in the middle of a heated argument with two blokes from forensics. John had an entertained and still love-struck look on his face, so the situation was apparently under control and quite amusing. They were probably going to leave for the night soon.
So, if Greg wanted to say hello to Mycroft and thank him for stopping by, he had a very narrow window of time.
He fidgeted a little with the sleeves of his suit, the same one he had put on that morning and hadn’t had time to change out of. He had contemplated bringing another one in case there was someone at the party he needed to impress, but resolved against it when he thought of all the trouble that would mean. Except now there was someone he wanted to show off for, and Greg was awfully aware of the wrinkles on his shirt and how the exhaustion he felt was making his brain fuzzy.
Well, he reasoned. Mycroft had probably seen worse. Mycroft had actually seen him worse.
And that was the other thing — after knowing each other and being not-friends for a decade, Greg still managed to make an ass of himself in front of the man constantly. Mycroft had always had a strange effect on him, one that Greg had attributed to both their strong personalities colliding and that Holmes trademark way of driving him up the wall. There was a time he had thought the tension spoke to a different pull Mycroft had on him, but he had been a pro at benching that feeling and dodging the longing, in the same way he had done with the awkward questions about his life.
Even taking a look at Mycroft now stirred something inside of Greg, awakening the rebellious part of himself that whispered “what if” in his ear every time he allowed his thoughts to wander. He knew the answer to that “what if” — Mycroft would decline his advances and politely take his distance, making not only their work, but the occasions where their personal lives overlapped, very uncomfortable. They both had served as best men at Sherlock and John’s wedding, after all, so their paths tended to cross more often than expected.
That had been the final proof that Greg needed to let go of his helpless crush — he had seen enough films on cable tv to know that if two people liked each other and were thrown into a weekend-long trip in a romantic country village and nothing happened, then it probably never would.
But knowing that Mycroft would not return his affection didn’t mean he would let the moment go without at least wishing him a Happy Christmas.
Mycroft was now standing next to the door to Greg’s office, the last one down the hall, next to the desks that had been cleared and set up as tables for the party. The space was what Greg would call non-descriptive holiday decorated, with very few pieces of tinsel and only the occasional festive banner. Quite depressing, now that he really paid attention to it. It looked exactly like what it was — an old, underfunded office where with very little effort the employees had tried to set December apart from the other months. It made Greg yearn for his Christmas at home as a kid, when money had been scarce but the spirit high. His mom had always tried her best to doll up the house and the holly, wreaths, and paper stars had been present in every room.
He had tried to carry on with the tradition, especially when his daughter had been young, but after the divorce and moving out on his own, it had been hard finding the motivation to make up the new place for himself. Still, his apartment looked properly festive — maybe not by his mom’s standards — even if Rory was all grown up now and spent the holiday break over at her fiancé’s house. It was the last bit of cheerful hope Greg refused to give up on, so at least he had a nice tree to look at while he sipped on his Guinness and watched old reruns on Christmas Eve.
There was one tradition Greg had never been really on board with, though — eggnog. He despised the taste of it, the smell of it, and quite honestly the look of it as well, and he never understood why so many people favored the disgusting drink when the holidays brought the possibility of indulging in hot chocolate or mulled wine.
As it was, Mycroft was standing next to the big bowl of eggnog, and Greg scrunched his nose at the sigh. Maybe it was a strategic choice. A clever man like Mycroft would realise that spot would be the least populated one and had decided to hang by the abandoned table for that reason precisely.
Not even the elegant figure of Mycroft wearing a dark grey suit and looking even sexier than usual next to the awfully disgusting drink made the sight more pleasant to Greg.
He must have been staring harder than he realised, because Mycroft looked up suddenly, as if he could tell someone was looking at him. Being Mycroft probably meant he had a special way of knowing that. But then again, how many times had Greg stared at him from a distance, completely unnoticed by him?
Their eyes met. He gave Greg a short nod and what could be described as a smile but was more like a grimace. Greg took a deep breath before making his way across the room towards him. Greeting Mycroft was the polite thing to do and, honestly, Greg knew he would regret letting him go without talking to him.
“Glad you could make it, Mycroft,” Greg said as he got to him.
Mycroft’s eyes were a little glazed, and Greg reckoned he was tired or plain bored. Perhaps both — it wasn’t the kind of party he was probably used to, and certainly not up to his standards. Greg suddenly wished his officers would have at least not dressed up the reindeer figure and scribbled innuendos on the sign on top of it.
“Thank you for the invite, Gregory,” he said, and Greg noticed a little pink on his cheeks. That was certainly weird — Mycroft rarely called him by his first name (always Gregory, never Greg, no matter how many times Greg had complained about it). The occasions where he had addressed him that way had been either in the middle of an argument or in the rare moments when Greg had seen Mycroft most vulnerable and had offered his help. It usually went “Listen here, Gregory” or “Thank you, Gregory”, and every single time had been engraved in Greg’s mind.
“Can’t really take the credit for it, since I’m awful with even keeping track of the contacts on my phone, you know that.”
What a big idiot, Lestrade. That surely would make him feel welcome.
“I’m glad to see you here, though,” he tried to amend. “I would have invited you, just probably forgot to do so until the last minute or reckoned you wouldn’t want to come — not that I’d blame you.”
He kept rambling like a teenager and not making a compelling case either. He really was on top of his game tonight.
Mycroft didn’t seem to mind the awkward display of Greg’s foot in his mouth. He was swaying a little to the music and had a small smile on his face.
“And what can you take credit for?” he asked.
“Uhh, forking off the money to buy drinks, as it's the boss’ job.”
Greg scratched the back of his neck, trying to keep the image of the thick eggnog from making him gag. He pointed at the bowl with the beige liquid.
“Not this, mind you,” he said with disgust.
“Not a fan of eggnog, Gregory?”
“I’d rather be shot than drink that.”
Mycroft’s face suddenly got very serious, and he closed his eyes.
“Don’t say things like that, please.” He looked at Greg, lowering his gaze afterward. “You are a policeman, there is a chance of that happening.”
“Okay,” Greg smiled fondly. “I’d rather go weeks hearing only crumbs of observations from your brother until he makes me admit I have no clue and he solves my case for me, then.”
Mycroft grinned and crinkled his eyes. Greg didn’t recall ever seeing him look so adorable.
“There is a high chance of that happening, too,” he said.
Greg put his hands in his pockets, balancing on the heels of his shoes.
“So, not a fan of eggnog,” he said after a minute, pouring himself a generous serving of gin instead.
“Pity, I found this one particularly good,” Mycroft said inspecting the paper cup he was sipping from. “I thought perhaps you might have wanted to share some with me.”
Greg leaned forward, and he could finally tell why the place didn’t reek of the dairy smell that usually made his stomach turn. It stank of rum.
That at least gave him the answer to what trouble Holdsworth and Wrigley had gotten up to this year.
“How many of these have you had?” Greg asked.
Mycroft pursed his lips, looking at the now empty cup with a concentration Greg had only seen him grant for cases of international relevance.
“Four, I believe.”
Greg swirled the bowl with the ladle and some of the creamy liquid separated from the amber rum.
“How have you stomached it?” he asked with bewilderment.
“I had a long flight before coming here,” Mycroft said. “I barely ate anything, don’t worry.”
He started swaying to the music and leaving nail marks on the paper cup as Greg stared at him in disbelief. His explanation made sense of his state, but Greg didn’t find it as reassuring as Mycroft had intended.
“That’s a bit not good,” Greg said, keeping an eye on Mycroft as he leaned against the table.
He seemed to be inspecting Greg as well, in that signature Mycroft Holmes way that usually made the hairs on the back of Greg’s neck stand up. He was probably sharper than anyone there still, but the alcohol made his eyes glisten in a different way and Greg picked up on the greyish blue standing out more.
“Can I ask what other tasks you took upon your hands regarding this event and issue a complaint?” Mycroft asked. He had furrowed his brow but the way he uttered each word with a careful determination made him seem less menacing than usual.
Greg didn’t know what kind of drunk he had expected Mycroft to be, but he had always had a feeling he wouldn’t drop his posh way of talking. Even though Greg knew he should be concerned and probably try to help out, it gave him a delightful satisfaction learning all the little details that made Mycroft who he was were present, but subtly amplified. All the things Greg liked so much about him, only slightly warped. The fancy words that he stumbled on, the power stance that was a little wobbly now, the elegant clothing that looked a tad more disheveled but relaxed with the first button on his shirt undone, perhaps as he had loosened the tie on his flight. Greg was mesmerised by how endearing everything about him was, and — oh boy, perhaps the gin had gotten to him a little as well because as he fixed his eyes on Mycroft’s rogue curl that wanted to break free from the pulled back way he styled his hair, Greg wanted nothing more than to kiss his lopsided grin.
Whatever Mycroft wanted to ask or complain about, Greg was nothing but ears. He was a lost cause, actually.
“Fire away,” he said, clearing his throat.
Mycroft turned his head as if giving the room a final inspection.
“Did you have anything to do with the decorations?”
Greg couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“Oh, that?” He pointed to the fake plastic tree in the corner. “No way.”
“Hmm,” Mycroft took another sip from his cup before Greg could stop him. “The only appealing thing I find about this time of the year is how aesthetically pleasing some places become with a touch of holly.”
Greg smiled with a little guilt, knowing this was a conversation Mycroft would probably deny having, but unable to resist himself from letting him carry on. A few people were looking in their direction now, surely shocked Mycroft Holmes had come to their lousy party. Greg stood closer to Mycroft to form a sort of wall between him and the table, and to keep as many prying eyes away from them as he could. Even though their talk had been harmless so far and Mycroft seemed coherent, Greg knew the pulled-together man would hate for anyone to see him not in complete control of himself.
“I’m particularly cross about the lack of mistletoe,” Mycroft added, oblivious to Greg standing closer.
Greg mimicked Mycroft’s posture and looked up, taking the opportunity to swallow a big gulp of gin. He wasn’t sure what that comment meant — and perhaps it meant precisely nothing, but his hopeful heart was reading too much into it. Mycroft was slushed, and it surely was nothing more than a passing observation.
“I find there’s always plenty of it in rooms where I despise everyone, and when I’m among nice company there is never any around, or, you know—“ Mycroft did a flourish with his hands that even with the clumsiness of being drunk didn’t lose its elegance “— above. All lost opportunities, I’m afraid.”
He was unaffected as he made the remark, but Greg in turn felt his cheeks flush and he couldn’t blame it solely on the alcohol. He would have dived into the eggnog just to have something to do other than stand there blinking at Mycroft like an idiot.
“I’ve never kissed anyone beneath the mistletoe,” Greg said, and now he really felt like the biggest fool who was probably misinterpreting things.
“Me neither,” Mycroft said with a shy smile.
There was a loud clang, sounding like a tower of plates had fallen and smashed to pieces, and they both turned to look. The two of them operated that way, no matter how intoxicated they might be, they snapped into work mode quickly. Greg moved slightly and saw that along with a few plates, Sherlock had also knocked over a pile of presents. A tired-looking John put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and fetched their coats.
Funny how two steady guys like John and he had to deal with their inebriated Holmeses.
Not his Holmes, dammit.
Probably not the comparison he should be making, especially after the mistletoe talk. Greg could have sworn there had been a moment of shared understanding between them, but he needed to put the thought of kissing Mycroft out of his mind quickly.
“Well, that happened,” Mycroft said as John and Sherlock walked past them, the two of them giggling as they said their goodbyes.
Greg chuckled.
“I have immense admiration for Dr. Watson, especially when you consider what being with my brother means,” he said.
“Hey, don’t be that tough,” Greg smiled. “He seems to enjoy it.”
“I suppose Sherlock is one of the lucky ones who have found someone to make this time of the year passable.”
“I know how you feel,” Greg scoffed.
Mycroft was observing him once again.
“I don’t imagine you do, Detective Inspector.”
Greg mourned the loss of his name on Mycroft’s lips, but kept his eyes on him. Sherlock and John’s departure had seemed to sober him up a bit.
“I can’t picture you being someone hard to be with,” Mycroft said.
“You’d be surprised,” Greg replied without missing a beat.
Mycroft looked as if he was about to say something, but fixed his eyes on the floor instead. Greg felt that after all the nonsense he had said that night, he had finally screwed up completely.
Then Mycroft leaned forward, losing his balance, and grabbed Greg’s arm.
“I suppose you have a car waiting outside, right?” Greg said as he put his hand above Mycroft’s. He looked slightly to the side, but thankfully everyone seemed to be preoccupied with their own conversations and hadn’t noticed them.
“I do, actually,” Mycroft replied. “I wasn’t planning on staying this long, but well…” he pointed at the eggnog and let go of Greg, holding on to the side of the table instead.
“Yeah, about that,” Greg said. “I think you should get in that car and go home.”
Mycroft nodded but didn’t move. He briefly closed his eyes, and even though he seemed more focused when he opened them and stared at Greg, he was still a little unsteady on his feet.
“I’ll go with you, make sure you get there safe,” Greg said.
Mycroft’s cheeks flushed again, but he turned his gaze away and tried to take a step forward.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said.
Greg stood in place, blocking his way.
“Come on, that would give me a good excuse for ditching this before someone corners me and asks to switch schedules for the break,” Greg reassured him.
Mycroft still looked unconvinced but Greg stared at him until he was sure he would take his help. All the thoughts he had had before seemed to have dissipated, and right now the only thing he saw in front of him was a very tired and still a bit drunk friend who needed to get home safely.
Mycroft tried his best to keep a steady pace as they moved through the room, but Greg had to loop his arm through his before they got to the elevator. When the doors opened, Greg saw Sally tilting her head to look at them with interest.
They made it outside the building, the cold air hitting Greg on the face and helping clear his mind. Mycroft shivered next to him, and Greg instinctively put his arm around his shoulders.
“Ah, I guess that’s him,” Greg said as he saw the black sedan approach.
The inside of the car was warm and smelled like leather, and Greg slid into it ungracefully. Mycroft stumbled a little as well, but he managed to settle easier than Greg, resting his head against the seat.
There was already a light coating of snow on the streets, and the lights from the decorations sparkled by the window. As Greg saw the few passersby huddle together on the corners and the few pubs crowded with folks, he cracked his neck and closed his eyes. It all seemed distant, but it felt like Christmas.
Greg took a look at the sleeping figure next to him, taking the opportunity to appreciate Mycroft. He took notice of the little details that had changed through the years they’d known each other, from the very first moment he had found himself in a similar car, Mycroft inspecting him, his driver taking them to his office where Greg would be questioned for hours.
Back then, Mycroft had used to color his hair more to hide the auburn hints in it. He hadn’t needed glasses to read, either, although he still concealed that fact now. Greg had caught sight of them a few months ago when Mycroft was waiting in his office reading the paper but pretended not to notice as Mycroft hastily put them away. It seemed like a lifetime ago when Mycroft used to contact him only to micromanage every single task he asked of him, and it drove Greg crazy.
Back then, he had also been better at hiding his softer side under the cold facade he put on for everyone. Greg had seen through it fairly quickly, in the first warm cup of tea ready for him when Mycroft had kept him up going over surveillance tapes, in the relief on his face when Greg had informed him they had jailed a guy dealing outside his old school, in the unshed but present tears in Mycroft’s eyes at John and Sherlock’s wedding. Greg enjoyed getting a glimpse into that more personal and vulnerable Mycroft, the one only a few people got to see, and he was proud to be regarded as special enough to witness it.
But what had really changed throughout the years was how much more real Mycroft seemed now — yet the more within Greg’s reach he was, the more time they spent together, the more puzzled Greg got. Precisely because he enjoyed Mycroft’s company so much, Greg was more afraid to act on his feelings that had lingered beneath the surface for years.
The car slowly pulled up to Mycroft’s driveway. Greg had been outside the elegant house quite a few times over the years, and only inside a mere two. Once was when he had driven Mycroft to get some documents when Sherlock had been hospitalized, and a second time when he had volunteered to escort Mycroft home after Greg had been called to help with the mess that had happened with their sister. He guessed none of those times were good memories for Mycroft, and perhaps this was also a night he would want to leave behind. Greg hoped he wasn’t mortified about his actions, because as far as he knew no-one at Scotland Yard had picked up on him being drunk, and Greg had enjoyed their talk.
“Mycroft…” Greg slowly shook his arm. “Mycroft, wake up, we’re here.”
He blinked a few times. Greg saw him trying to focus on his face and the inside of the car. He sat upright and closed his jacket, and Greg could tell the effect of the rum was wearing off already.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” he said. He ran a hand over his chest to try to smooth the lines of his suit. Everything from his posture, the change in his tone, and the way he had directed his legs opposite Greg’s and towards the door told him that whatever bubble they had been in had burst.
“Do you need a hand getting settled?” Greg chanced. He knew, now that Mycroft his senses back, his Holmes all-seeing-superpowers, that he would be able to tell how desperately Greg wanted to be invited in. Greg didn’t have the energy to mask his willingness to be by Mycroft’s side like he usually did. Mycroft, ever the gentleman, let his pathetic plea go and didn’t comment on it.
“I’m fine, thank you,” he responded. He opened the door but hesitated. “And thank you for helping me get here. I apologise for whatever I…”
He rubbed his hand through his face again, not meeting Greg’s eyes.
“Well, send my regards to your colleagues,” he said.
“Right, will do,” Greg said, trying to keep his disappointment from showing.
What little hope he had crumbled away as Mycroft stepped from the car. Greg made a move to do the same. He could probably call a cab from here, although getting one in the middle of the night on the verge of Christmas Eve was going to be a pain.
“Please make use of the car. You’ll be dropped off at your apartment. It’s the least I can do,” Mycroft said before Greg could get out.
“Thank you.” Greg leaned against the seat again. “And, uh, sorry about the eggnog.”
Mycroft grimaced, and Greg couldn’t help but smile.
“See, now you’re championing my team of disgust.”
Mycroft returned a tired smile.
“Merry Christmas, Detective Inspector,” he said softly.
Greg felt a warm wave coming down his spine, and his stomach did a funny twist as he took in how beautiful Mycroft looked beneath the Christmas lights that were set up on his gate.
“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”
—
Greg slumped onto the couch once he was in his apartment. He only managed to take his shoes off before lying awkwardly on his side. He took a look around the place — under his tree there were the gifts he still hadn’t given out. If they were there, tucked away as Christmas Eve officially began, then it meant they were for special people, those who got a visit on the 24th or on Christmas Day.
The latest, most corny romance regency novel for Sally and the promise not to tell a soul about her reading habits. A new backpack for Molly, so she could give her purse and her arms a break. A camera case for John, who had recently gotten into filming stuff for his blog, and an antique gas lamp for Sherlock as a nod to a case they had solved earlier in the year. Two gifts for Rosie because he liked to spoilt her a little -- so what? He wanted to secure his place as her favorite uncle, a task he knew was completely lost due to her fascination with Mycroft. In the most beautiful wrapping paper, there was a box of fine Darjeeling for Mrs. Hudson, as a part of an old tradition among them, going all the way back to when Greg had used to drink her tea waiting for Sherlock to show up. He had shipped The Complete Works of Charlotte Brönte to Rory at the beginning of December, but he had a special edition of Jane Eyre wrapped and tucked away in case she decided to stop by before New Year’s to visit her old man.
There was a bottle of red wine for Mycroft, and two things were different from last year in that regard.
Ever since they had been on gift-giving-terms, Greg had always gotten him a bottle of whiskey. He knew it was the same type everyone trying to get on food terms with Mycroft got for him, from ministers looking to suck up to old university acquaintances. It was no secret Mycroft Holmes enjoyed a nice glass of Scotch, and a mere glimpse at the selection he had at his office had told Greg he couldn’t go wrong with that. He had always gotten a thank you note in the first days of the year, and it was all perfectly fine, just not personal enough.
This year, as Greg had made his usual run for the posh store he only visited around this time, he had stared at the rows of overpriced bottles, one particular brand of wine standing out. He remembered Mycroft mentioning how good it was when they had had dinner at a restaurant uptown. It was a tad bit more expensive than the whiskey but not completely out of Greg’s spending range — Mycroft had mentioned how more expensive wine didn’t always mean better wine, and Greg had nodded along pretending to understand a word he was saying about tannins and terroir.
It was not about the price, anyway. A part of him knew that it represented something different, giving Mycroft a bottle of wine instead of their usual exchange of spirits - Scotch for Mycroft, a really good gin for Greg that God only knew where Mycroft found.
Maybe that was why, reason number two, this year was different, and he hadn’t found the courage to drop the bottle off with Anthea like he usually did, bringing her a box of chocolates while he was at it. It remained neatly settled beneath his tree, mocking his cowardice every day when he got home. Greg didn’t know much about how social etiquette went, but Mycroft surely did. He would understand what the gesture meant, and then Greg would have to put on his best face to handle the rejection or lose Mycroft’s sort-of-friendship altogether. And then it would be back to square one.
He reckoned it wasn’t too late to make a dash early in the morning and get the customary whiskey, send it over with an apology for it arriving late and calling it a year. Maybe come next Christmas time he’d finally muster up the courage to—
There was a knock on his door. Who would come by at half past midnight in the middle of a snow storm?
The knock was coming from outside his actual door, not the bell letting him know someone was downstairs outside his building. The only person who had a key was Rory, and Greg’s blood froze with worry. He reminded himself he had checked on her when he had gotten to the party and she was safe and sound at home after doing her Christmas shopping.
The knocking became more insistent. Greg looked from the peephole and, of course, the only person who could make his way inside any building in Britain was there.
“Mycroft?” Greg asked in disbelief as he opened the door.
He had apparently taken a shower because his hair was wet, and he had changed into a wool jumper and a heavy coat. His eyes were glistening, and he seemed more awake than an hour ago, although tired still.
“Is everything alright?” Greg asked as he stepped aside so Mycroft could come inside.
But he stood in place, his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on Greg. He seemed nervous but didn’t make a move.
“It is,” he said. “I wanted to thank you again for your assistance tonight.”
“There’s no need, Mycroft,” Greg said, finding the whole scene pretty awkward. He half expected Mycroft to give him a speech about Greg’s actions and how his affection wasn’t reciprocated. The cold was slowly reaching him, and Greg rubbed his hands together for warmth.
“Not that I would mind helping out any time of the year, but it’s Christmas,” he said.
“It is,” Mycroft said again, and paused before continuing to speak.
“It’s that time of the year, and I think there is a wrong I have to amend.”
Greg crossed his arms and tilted his head in confusion. He waited for Mycroft to speak, but instead, he took one hand out of his pocket. Something small and green shone between his fingers.
“Holly?” Greg asked, even though he knew damn well that was not holly.
“I’m afraid not,” Mycroft said. “This is mistletoe.”
Greg shivered, although not only from the wind coming from the hallway.
“You-- you just had some of that lying around the house?” he stammered, aiming for a humorous tone.
“Anthea arranges for the decorations in my home. As I have mentioned a few times, it’s the only thing I particularly enjoy about the holidays.” He looked down at the green leaves tied together with a golden cord.
“She must have asked for this addition this year, I saw it tonight hanging over my door. I’ve been staring at it all this time without realising what it was,” he said.
“Funny how that happens,” Greg said with a hoarse voice.
Mycroft looked up and took a short breath before extending his hand to Greg, who took the mistletoe. He stared at their hands almost brushing, and then Mycroft gave him a small nod before turning to leave.
Greg hesitated and stood there, but a part of him told him Mycroft hadn’t come all the way here just to give him a small piece of decoration. Or at least he hoped so, because he was about to make an idiot of himself, as he knew he couldn’t wait another year to act on his feelings.
“Mycroft, wait,” Greg called out. Mycroft stood at the top of the stairs, and Greg spoke again.
“Come here, please,” he said. He leaned back against the door frame so that he was technically standing in the entrance.
Mycroft turned back, but this time he seemed a bit more unsure as he approached Greg.
Greg was aware that he was a few inches shorter than Mycroft, though from afar he would have said Mycroft was a head taller than him from the way he carried himself and how his elegant suits gave him an air of significance. That, and the fact that Greg knew he had poor posture that made him seem shorter than he really was. All that to reason that with their slight height difference, if Greg raised his arm up, then his hand would hang nicely above their heads. And the mistletoe in it as well.
He looked up and then to Mycroft.
“You said they were all lost opportunities. Well, I hope I’m nice company enough…”
Mycroft stopped just in front of him and his eyes turned softer.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so, Gregory”
Greg grinned but it was hard to step closer with his arm raised like that. He leaned forward but then brought his hand down to cup Mycroft’s cheek, still holding the mistletoe.
“I don’t want to kiss you because it’s Christmas or because there’s mistletoe, Mycroft,” he said. Greg traced his face and tilted his chin up. “I want to do so any day, whether it snows or rains, when we are having a drink or you’re mumbling orders on your phone. If I stare at you from a distance or we are crammed in the back of your car. I wanted to kiss you so badly today at the office but I wanted to do it at the bar of John and Sherlock’s wedding too.”
Mycroft’s eyes darted from Greg’s lips to his eyes, and Greg hoped he could convey the honesty of every single one of his words.
“I think I might have wanted to kiss you from the very first day you dragged me for an interrogation,” Greg whispered.
Mycroft’s chuckle died inside of Greg’s mouth. It turned into a gasp, and then he was kissing him back, holding on to Greg’s shoulders with force.
“Everyone else falls short… no one had ever come close,” Mycroft said against his lips. He leaned back, searching Greg’s face. His hands traveled from Greg’s shoulders to his hands, where he found the green leaves still clutched.
“It’s always been you, Gregory.” He took Greg’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “Beneath the mistletoe or not, you are the only one.”
At some point, when he ended up pressed against the door frame, Greg realised they were making out like teenagers in his hallway. He knew they needed to make up for lost time, but he had a soft, comfortable couch in the apartment.
“Come inside,” Greg said between kisses. “I’ll give you your gift.”
Mycroft kissed him once more and then raised a brow.
“Not that,” Greg fondly rolled his eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Although just taking a look at Mycroft in his casual clothes, with his lips swollen from kissing and his nose red from the cold, Greg knew it was going to be difficult to resist taking things slow.
“Do you want to share a bottle of wine with me?” Greg asked, grabbing the package from underneath the tree.
“Officers Holdsworth and Wrigley haven’t tampered with it as well, correct?” Mycroft asked.
Greg laughed and shook his head, but he thought that perhaps he owed both of them some time off during the holidays as a thank you.