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“What are you saying?” Greg asked, anger trembling his voice, his hands shaking with spilled anger.
Mycroft said nothing.
“Do you even love me at all?” Greg then asked when no answer came to the first question.
Mycroft said nothing.
The tension in the air was sickening, silence deafening. Mycroft turned around on his heel and went to their shared bedroom and locked the door.
Then he heard the front door slam, and Gregory was gone.
And as he sat, back against the door, he knew that it was a tough life with love in the world, he had known that always, and he had let it in anyways.
He had loved, did love, Greg, maddening, and it affected all parts of his life. His work-load was getting bigger, and he was getting it done slower. He thought about his partner at all times, small smiles creeping onto his face when he got a text from his beloved, and now his beloved stood and said he didn’t think Mycroft loved him.
Mycroft should be angry. But he knew he was in the wrong. He didn’t show his love often enough, didn’t show it hard enough, didn’t this and didn’t that.
He cried. Slowly, he put his head into his hands, legs pulled up before him, and he laid a cheek on his knee and cried.
Mycroft Holmes, the man who never cried, cried now.
Of course he had known he was a tough man to love, but Greg had proved in the last two years that it was well worth it. And now – was it over? If he had lost everything he held dear, what else could he do but cry?
Gregory slammed the door as he went out. Of course. Ice Man, he had known from the start, the man was incapable of love, and didn’t need it. But it hurt. A dull ache as Greg walked down the street.
Where would he go?
He had nowhere and no one – he had people who’d let him sleep on their couch, but he didn’t want to be on a couch for the night. ‘Impossible git’, he thought at he walked down the street.
And he ended just walking to nowhere in particular.
As Greg’s phone rang in his pocket, he didn’t bother picking up. It was probably Mycroft, and he didn’t want to talk to the man at this moment.
But it rang again.
“What?” he growled into the phone.
“Good evening, Detective Inspector,” Anthea’s smooth voice said, “Get in the car.”
He didn’t want to get in any car, didn’t want to go home, but there were no place else he’d rather be.
So he got in.
“What do you want, Anthea?” he asked her as he got in.
“I’m taking you home,” she answered.
“No.”
She lifted an eyebrow as she looked up from her Blackberry.
“Mr. Holmes is utterly devastated according to the security cameras installed in your flat. You’re going to go home and make up.”
And that was the last of that, it seemed.
Mycroft was nowhere to be seen when Gregory came in the front door. He swallowed down the bad feeling in his throat. Nothing happened, right? No one was there to do anything to his lover, right?
Greg tip-toed up to their shared bedroom, but it was locked.
He draw a shaky breath as he knocked.
“Mycroft?” he called out.
No answer.
“Mycroft?” he called out again.
No answer.
“Mycroft!”
And just finally, the lock was heard and the door opened.
The sight of Mycroft standing there, in Greg’s shirt and loose pants, red-eyed and teary-cheeked made Greg’s breath hitch.
“My,” he whispered and took the younger man in his arms.
The ginger sobbed, held onto him tight.
“Don’t leave me,” he finally whispered, “Please.”
Gregory had never once heard Mycroft beg, and his heart clenched.
“Never.”