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John and Greg were the first two to arrive at Mycroft’s house for his select ‘between Christmas and New Year’ drinks party. Christmas was obviously for family and New Year was for drinking with people who it would be helpful to know. This party, however, was select for a different reason: Mycroft invited the people that he actually didn’t mind talking to for an hour or so, before they could all be persuaded to leave again. Plus his brother.
The door was opened by a tall man, who neither John nor Greg recognised.
He held out his hand to them. “Victor Trevor,” he said by way of introduction. “Mycroft asked me to take your coats and show you into the drawing room. He’ll be with us shortly.”
There was a slight smirk on the man’s face, and Greg raised an eyebrow as he glanced at John. Then both turned to watch as Victor led the way.
“You’re a married man,” Greg whispered to John.
“That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a good arse when I see one,” John replied. “And if Mycroft’s got his claws into him, you haven’t got a chance.”
Greg gave a short hum. “We shall see.”
Mycroft joined them shortly afterwards. “Sorry to keep you waiting, gentlemen. I was putting the final touches to the punch.” He put the bowl down on a side table. “Can I offer you some?”
They were both temporarily struck dumb, but quickly recovered themselves sufficiently to mutter, “Yes, please,” and, “That would be lovely.”
Mycroft was dressed casually, or at least as casually as he would ever permit himself to be. His trousers were immaculately pressed, and he was wearing what was clearly an expensive pale lilac shirt, with a muted v-neck pullover. And on his feet were bunny slippers.
John attempted to keep a straight face as he said, “Mary sends her apologies.”
“I trust she is well,” Mycroft replied.
“Yes, just very tired.” He was going to say more, but started to giggle.
Mycroft merely smiled back. “I expect that dealing with an active toddler, when you are expecting twins must take its toll.” As he spoke he wiggled his toes.
John had taken a mouthful of punch in the hope of curtailing his giggles, but the sight of the bunny ears flopping up and down threatened to set him off again, and not wishing to spurt punch all over the floor, he kept his mouth shut and merely nodded his head.
Meanwhile, Greg had turned his back on Mycroft and glared at Victor as if to say that he could have warned them. The small smirk on Victor’s face grew wider.
They were saved by the doorbell.
“I’ll go,” a female voice said.
A minute later, Mycroft’s current assistant, Violet, came into the room followed by Sherlock and Stanley Hopkins.
“Victor, you’re back,” Sherlock said, and shot across the room to hug the man.
Stanley stood to one side, clearly unsure what to do. Greg took pity on him and went over to join him.
“Is there any chance, brother mine, that you will introduce me to your friend?” Mycroft said.
“That’s Stanley,” Sherlock said. “But you know that.”
“Sherlock,” Victor said, “Don’t be a complete prat.”
Sherlock huffed, but released Victor from his grip. “We’ll talk later,” he said.
“We’ll see,” Victor said. Greg realised that Victor was looking at him as he spoke.
Sherlock stomped over to Mycroft and then spotted the slippers. He rolled his eyes. “Mycroft, this is Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Stanley,” Sherlock motioned to the younger man to join them, “This is my insufferable brother, Mycroft.”
Stanley reached to shake hands with Mycroft, but was unable to keep himself from staring at the slippers. Then he blushed, realising what he was doing. Mycroft wiggled his toes, the ears flapped and Stanley went even redder.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, “Why?”
“A bet.”
Sherlock glared. He couldn’t decide whether Mycroft was wearing the slippers for a bet (unlikely) or that he was wearing them because he had lost a bet (practically impossible).
He was saved from having to make a decision by Greg finally giving up on all attempts to keep a straight face and laughing loudly. “Mycroft, you look ridiculous,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re rather growing on me,” Mycroft replied. Greg thought he caught Victor giving a quick nod in Mycroft’s direction, but couldn’t be sure.
After that they made small talk, or in Sherlock’s case refused to speak, until a clock chimed loudly to indicate that the select drinks party - select not only in terms of company, but of length - had come to an end.
As Greg retrieved his coat and turned to leave, Victor came over to him. “I was thinking of heading out to one of the local bars,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”
Greg grinned. “I’d be delighted.”
Watching Greg leave Sherlock turned to his brother. “You sod! Victor wanted to know whether to ask Greg out and you set up those stupid slippers as a test. Greg said what he thought and Victor knew they’d get on.”
Mycroft smiled benignly. “Whatever you say, brother.” Then he wiggled his toes again to make the ears flap before turning to the once more blushing Stanley. “Good night, inspector.”