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The party had not yet started; Molly Hooper hesitated at the entrance of 221B, her hands full of flowers and chocolates.
"Let me get those for you," Greg Lestrade said with a smile.
She stretched out her hands, and he took the entire bundle without dropping anything. She had always thought of the Inspector as the perfect gentleman — the kind who would offer perfect gifts at Christmas, not because he was trying too hard but out of sheer thoughtfulness. She was delighted to be proved right.
While Greg was walking carefully towards the kitchen, Mycroft Holmes stalked towards him. From where she stood, Molly couldn't hear what they were saying — and she wasn't the sort to eavesdrop, anyway.
She didn't need to be the world's only consulting detective to guess what they were saying, though. One look at Mycroft's frown and Greg's hunched shoulders told her all she needed to know.
As Greg dropped his head and sighed, the strangest thing happened… Molly convinced herself afterwards that the Christmas lights strung up on the walls had gotten in her eyes. In that moment, however, she thought she saw Mycroft's hand reaching out and pressing against Greg's shoulder.
Sherlock swept through the room in his usual slim-fitted shirt and trousers, drawing everyone’s attention. He threw back over his shoulder, “It wasn’t my idea to celebrate a completely arbitrary calendar change, John.”
Molly looked back into the kitchen and saw Greg and Mycroft standing on opposite sides of the small room. Ignoring the lingering tension, Sherlock stalked to the fridge and removed a bottle of wine, which he thrust into his brother’s hands.
“Here, you should like this. Be a good host, won’t you?”
Mycroft sighed. He began gingerly rummaging through a drawer — looking for a corkscrew, Molly guessed. Greg was staring at bottles of beer sitting on the counter. This wasn’t a particularly party-like atmosphere.
“Could I have a glass of that, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, figuring it was likely the safest choice, and she might enjoy the chance to taste something new.
“Of course, Ms. Hooper,” he responded, as he handed over a filled glass and gave her one of his professional, brief smiles.
“I might as well pour one for myself while I’m at it,” Mycroft thought to himself, as Molly turned to the main room of the party.
Mycroft couldn’t remember why he’d agreed to come. No, that wasn’t true. He needed to shake off his comfort with deceit and avoidance in his personal life.
He’d promised Greg. And his partner had thought it was a good idea for them to spend some time with family members during the holidays. “We’re not gettin’ any younger, Myc, and connections are important,'' he'd said.
Mycroft wasn’t able to deny him anything in his power to grant. Their relationship was still relatively young, but they knew themselves and their goals, and they worked remarkably well together, professionally and personally.
The party wasn’t large, after all, just Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, and Ms. Hooper. Yet they hadn’t made it clear to the attendees that he and Greg were a couple. Blame a combination of inertia, superstition and discretion. Mycroft was frankly astonished that his brother hadn’t blurted it out yet, but Sherlock could remain remarkably blind to anything where he wasn’t the center of attention.
Mycroft wished that he and Greg had had a moment to talk over how to proceed, but they’d both been putting it off. They’d just have to navigate as best they could.
Greg could read it in Mycroft’s hands shaking slightly as he passed Molly a glass of wine. He could listen to it in the sharpness his words had had ever since they had arrived at 221B. He could see it in the stiffness of his posture — unnoticeable to anyone else, probably, who would claim Mycroft was always tense and constrained. “No,” Greg told himself, taking one look at how his partner stood still in the kitchen, “this is a different kind of tension.”
Greg was aware that making deductions in that apartment, with the two Holmes brothers nearby, was like betting against the dealer in a rigged game, but there was so much that flew past their brilliant minds.
Like the fact that they both cared for each other and their wellbeing, and that despite all the theatrics both Mycroft and Sherlock loved to engage in, they really needed one another.
Because of his line of work, Greg was well aware of how fleeting time was, and how quickly it could all go away. Sherlock and Mycroft were exposed to that as well, but they fancied themselves above all danger, Greg knew that.
He, on the other hand, was painfully aware of the despair of not acting up and then being too late. He had seen it far too often, and it always broke his heart. That motivation to seize the moment had been what had finally pushed Greg to ask Mycroft out, swallowing his pride and the absolute fear that he might have been misreading the signs Mycroft had been sending him, terrified of misjudging years and years of the two of them dancing around each other.
They had taken the leap, and he wanted to tell everyone who would listen how much he loved the man next to him. Perhaps not that, as they hadn’t yet said that to one another. But Greg longed to share the happiness this relationship had brought into his life.
He wanted to be able to hold Mycroft’s hand when they were having tea. He wanted to be free to say “Now come on, darlin’, let’s have another drink and go to your place” without double-checking who was around. He wanted to celebrate with their friends, as the year was ending, how his life had improved immensely for having Mycroft in it now.
And yet Mycroft had his doubts.
He hadn’t voiced them, but Greg wanted to show him there was nothing to fear now.
So, instead of dancing around each other, as they used to do for almost a decade, they would dance with each other tonight, Greg had decided.
Molly walked around the room, one hand tightly clenched around her drink and the other smoothing out her dress. She looked around, her eyes fleeting from one corner to the next.
On one end, Greg and John were talking, their heads close together. The last time Molly had tried to approach them, they had been so immersed in their football talk that they hadn’t noticed her arrival. She had tried to fit in, but since she hadn’t watched the ‘best match of the season’ in question, her contributions were limited to polite nods and shakes of the head.
On the other end, next to the food, Mycroft and Sherlock were standing next to each other. They had seemingly started a battle of wits without words, their eyes boring into each other. From time to time, Sherlock would frown or Mycroft would scoff; otherwise, they were completely still. Molly was not brave enough to approach those two.
She finally turned to the last guest, who was standing underneath the mistletoe and giggling. Mrs Hudson looked up at Molly and let out another chuckle.
“Come to sweep me off my feet?" she exclaimed.
Molly kissed Mrs Hudson's cheek good-naturedly and reached for her glass of punch, which was almost empty.
"I'm going to check on the meat in the oven," she offered.
Once she reached the kitchen, she discovered that someone was already there. Mycroft stood with his back to her, his shoulders tense and his arms clenched to his sides.
She had already started to double back when she noticed a slight tremor rippling his back. It then struck her that Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, was crying.
As soon as he heard someone step into the kitchen, Mycroft instantly straightened up and closed down, steeling his features and clearing his expression.
His time spent with Sherlock had not been helpful. There was so much history between them, and no good model for how to interact in a different fashion. This party may have been a mistake. The holidays came with too many expectations.
He knew Greg wanted more for them, and he was happy with the idea, when it was just the two of them, but here? Now? Was it the right time to risk disdain and embarrassment? Was it ever the right time?
Molly retreated as far across the flat as possible, winding up again next to the football discussion. Enough of this. Time to find out if she could trust what she’d seen.
She cautiously waited for a break in their conversation and dropped in, “Greg, looks like you could use another drink.”
Greg caught her eye as she tilted her head towards the kitchen.
“Sure, Molly, thanks. More later, John.”
The shorter man nodded and began asking Molly how her holidays had been as Greg crossed the room.
As soon as Greg passed the doorway, he realized he owed Molly some thanks. Mycroft wasn’t handling this well, regardless of the facade he’d again put up. Greg came up behind him, close enough to whisper, far enough Mycroft wouldn’t be uncomfortable if anyone saw them.
“Do we need to leave?”
Mycroft turned to face him. “I had not realized how difficult a small group gathering would be.”
“We can go any time, darlin’. Nothing to prove here.”
“No, it’s past time. I have faith in us.” Mycroft gave a small, weak smile. “With you by my side, I can face them.” He extended his hand, taking Greg’s. “Shall we?”
Greg stared into Mycroft’s eyes, still slightly damp but shining with vulnerability. Greg was always struck with how beautiful he looked when he was like this, open, honest, allowing himself to even be weak. And Greg was regarded as someone who could bear witness to all that.
Not for the first time, he wanted to punch Sherlock’s smug face for hurting Mycroft, but he took a deep breath and focused on what he could do to turn the night around. He refused to let Mycroft start the year like this, so miserably.
Although maybe if he didn’t react as Greg expected, the year was going to begin like a mess for both of them.
“Buckle up, Lestrade,” he told himself. His instincts served him well at work, he was not about to doubt them now.
“Tell you what, can you stay in here for a bit?” Greg asked Mycroft, running a hand along his arm for comfort. “You’ll know when to come out.”
Mycroft frowned but then locked eyes with Greg and nodded.
“He trusts me,” Greg thought. “The man who needs to always be in control, to be one step ahead all the time, really trusts me.” His heart swelled two sizes like the Grinch. How appropriately festive.
“--and here he is in his Santa Claus costume. Isn’t he the cutest with his little paws?”
Molly lost her train of thought as she saw Greg walk out of the kitchen, looking tense but focused. She barely heard John’s comment about Whiskers, and she answered on autopilot. Inwardly, she wondered if she had made the right call. Had she read too much in the situation? She hated putting her foot in it.
“Is something wrong?” John asked gently, kindly putting his hand on her shoulder — ever the considerate Doctor.
“It’s just— ” Molly hesitated. She didn’t want to spread gossip but she still wished to share some of her burdens with someone. “Mycroft was upset after Sherlock— ”
Molly shouldn’t have worried about saying too much; she never got to finish her sentence.
Clouds stormed John’s expression. His hand tightened around an invisible gun, and his legs straightened into a military position.
“Excuse me, I should take care of this,” he observed in a strained voice.
She saw him stop near where Sherlock was experimenting on the punch. John started talking rapidly, his mouth tightening in cold fury. Immediately Sherlock went still, his hands dropping the ingredients which he had apparently decided to add to the punch.
A chill seemed to seep through the room. Molly wrapped her arms around herself, shivering with it. As she looked around at the party, she thought with some nostalgia of what her evening could have been — a quiet night in with Whiskers, both of them enjoying Don Vito Corleone’s ingenious scheming.
Instead, here they were: Mycroft shedding tears in the kitchen, John and Sherlock arguing… and the night isn’t over yet!
Greg made his way to John’s player and rummaged through the pile of records next to it. A lot of classical numbers, probably Sherlock’s, that he shouldn’t touch. Maybe he could scratch one or two to make up for the tactless idiot upsetting Mycroft.
“Aha!” he exclaimed. John looked up from where he was talking rapidly with Sherlock, the latter one looking slightly ashamed. Maybe your records can live another day, Holmes.
Greg placed the record on the turntable, and it began to spin, filling the room with its soft melody and Ella Fitzgerald’s velvet voice.
“When the bells all ring and the horns all blow
And the couples that we know are fondly kissing
Will I be with you or will I be among the missing?”
Greg turned back around, surveying the room. Mycroft was standing in the kitchen doorway. When their eyes locked, Mycroft straightened up, pulling down his waistcoat, and took a confident step forward, towards him. Greg held out his hand, welcoming his partner. “May I have this dance, Mr. Holmes?”
Mycroft placed his cool palm into his, as Greg put his other arm around Mycroft’s waist, wrapping him close. The two began swaying together to the standard, “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”
Greg murmured into Mycroft’s ear the next lyrics:
“Maybe I'm crazy to suppose
That I'd ever be the one you chose
Out of the thousand invitations you receive”
Mycroft shivered and drew Greg closer. The one time in his life he was most surprised, never envisioning that anyone would care for him in this way, and it brought him this wonderful man. It was long past time that he told others how proud he was of Greg. How honoured to have his affection. How he was someone he could open up to.
Mycroft put his head on Greg’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Happy New Year, my love. I love you.”
Neither paid attention to Sherlock crossing his arms and rounding his shoulders, hunching into himself. John looked stunned, then a tiny bit pleased, while Molly beamed.
John turned to Sherlock. “Shall we, you git?” and opened his arms to his detective. The two began their own dance.
Molly knew it was time for her to go. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the corner, silently applauding her boys, but Molly once again felt like a fifth wheel. Such was her life. The new year looked like more of the same. She sighed, grabbed her wrap, and went down the stairs.
In front of Baker Street stood a shiny black car. Molly had seen it before, usually in more dire situations, but she didn’t make much of its presence here. It was to be expected, actually.
At least another soul was alone as the year was coming to an end. She pitied the driver just as much as she did herself.
She didn’t need to check her watch to know it was less than a minute before midnight. The thought of ringing in the new year walking the London streets on her own upset her terribly. Outside Baker Street, at least, the chill air would help her clear her mind. And the solitary car parked in front of Speedy’s made her feel less alone.
She glanced upstairs again, a smile creeping on her face. Each of the windows showed the silhouette of an embracing couple. She couldn’t help, even while being miserable, feeling happy for her friends.
“Looks like they finally figured it out, then,” a voice said next to her.
Molly forced her eyes off the windows and stared at the beautiful woman clad in a heavy coat leaning against the entrance.
“Yes, after a bumpy road for sure, but they made it there.”
She could have sworn some of the music was still audible outside the apartment, and Anthea slightly swayed to it. Molly wanted to ask her why she hadn’t come up or why she was also alone as the clock was ticking down, but the words got stuck in her throat.
“Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
When it's exactly 12 o'clock, midnight
Welcoming in the New Year, New Year's Eve”
“I always say, start as you mean to go on,” Anthea chuckled. “So I am glad to find you here, Ms. Hooper.”
Ten, nine, eight...
Greg held Mycroft close. He knew the point of this was to have no more secrets, to share their love with everyone else.
seven, six, five…
“Oh, great, all of London can count apparently,” Sherlock sneered, rolling his eyes, earning both a glare and a helpless smile from John.
But right now, when it came to Greg, all the other people in London could sod off. Everyone else in the world. From here and there, places where the new year was well underway already and those who were still stuck on the year they were leaving behind.
four, three, two…
Because he had all he needed right there, in his arms. Mycroft looked adoringly at him, like Greg had hung the moon himself. Greg knew he was the luckiest bastard out of the two, when he heard Mycroft Holmes say “I love you” to him.
“To starting the rest of my years just like this,” Mycroft whispered, before bringing Greg closer and kissing him.