Chapter Text
Greg looked at his watch when he finally heard the sound of Mycroft’s key in the front door: 22:53. The hurt and anger that had been simmering since he’d received his husband’s text excusing himself from another dinner with Greg’s family on account of ‘work demands’ hit boiling point, and his hands clenched painfully on his knees.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Things took somewhat longer than expected to tie up,” Mycroft said absently as he entered the living room and settled into his customary wingback armchair. He looked exactly as he always did, perfectly turned out and seemingly unaffected by anything going on around him, and Greg’s anger went up a notch. “I trust that Gary and Sarah are well?”
Biting down a harsh ‘fuck off’ as his skin prickled with anger and anxiety, Greg took a deep breath and relaxed his hands as he exhaled. “We need to talk.”
Mycroft looked up in the process of untying his left shoe with something akin to panic in his grey eyes, but Greg was too angry and hurt to recognise it. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” Heart pounding at the thought of what was coming, Greg fought and failed to keep his voice level. “I’m going to Gary’s tonight and I’m staying there for a while.” He watched as his husband blinked and paled rapidly. “I need a break.”
For a man who always had an answer for everything, Mycroft had remarkably little to say to that. Knowing that matters of the heart were not his husband’s strong point, Greg gave him time to process it, but when a whole minute had passed in tense silence his nerves couldn’t take any more. “Say something then,” he growled.
“What should you like me to say?” Mycroft laid his hands in his lap and something savage in Greg was satisfied to see that he was shaking. “This is rather unexpected.”
“Like fuck it is,” Greg snapped. “This has been coming for months, Mycroft, or haven’t you cared enough to see it?”
Mycroft moistened his dry lips. “Greg, please. I know that we’ve both been busy recently —”
“— It’s not just work though, is it? When was the last time you actually made some proper time for us? I never thought I’d be more important than your work, but I don’t think the odd lie in or lunch date’s a lot to ask for, especially recently. Even sex feels like you’re just checking something off your to do list, and I need more than that.” Greg’s heart was pounding, but there was no way he could stop now. “When was the last time you even asked how I am? You might be able to deduce every last detail of my day from a glance, but I still need you to at least pretend that you’re interested in me talking about it. It’s not a lot to ask for, is it? A bit of time and affection from the man who says he loves me.”
Greg paused for breath, faintly hoping that Mycroft would stop him with a half-arsed apology so they could start trying to save their marriage, but he remained silent, his expression blank.
“What’s today?” Greg demanded when it became obvious that Mycroft was not going to speak. His heart was pounding hard enough that he was sure Mycroft must be able to hear it, but this needed saying. Greg had promised himself that this marriage would not be like his last one, and he had let this go on for far too long.
“Thursday the twenty second of March,” came the prompt if uncomprehending reply.
In normal circumstances, Mycroft’s ‘does not compute’ expression would have earned him a kiss, but on this occasion it only fanned the flames of Greg’s anger. “It’s been six months since my parents died in that car crash, and today should have been their sixtieth anniversary! I’m sure it’ll all come back to you if you try hard enough.” Mycroft's expression transitioned from incomprehension to horrified in the blink of an eye, but Greg was past caring. “I even insisted that Gary and Sarah came here for dinner instead of Mum and Dad’s favourite restaurant because I thought you’d be more likely to show up if we were at home.” Shaking, Greg stood up and pocketed his phone. “I really needed you today, Mycroft. Not the best grief counsellor your money can buy, or expensive presents, but you. Why the fuck did you marry me if that’s too much to ask for?”
Mycroft stood as Greg crossed the room to where he had a suitcase waiting behind the sofa. “Please, Greg. You don’t need to leave,” he said, as close to distressed as Greg had seen him since the mess with the secret sibling.
“Yeah, I really do.” Greg picked up his suitcase as a wave of nausea hit at the thought that this could be the end of their marriage. “I need time with people who can stand to be around me when I’m grieving, and you need to decide whether you want to put in the effort - and, no, that’s not the same as money - to make this marriage work.”
The world seemed to blur as Greg crossed the cavernous hall, and it took him a moment to realise that he was crying, fat tears distorting his vision before rolling down his cheeks. He paused at the door to wipe his eyes, took a deep breath in an attempt to ground himself, and stepped out into the cold night where his brother was waiting in his van.