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“C’mon Mycroft, we promised.” Greg leaned against the doorway of Mycroft’s home office, glaring at his husband whose nose was resolutely pointed at his laptop.
“No,” Mycroft said as the click of his keyboard continued, “ you promised. I did no such thing.”
“I am given to understand that you and Sergeant Donovan will be hosting a ‘Halloween fancy dress party’,” Mycroft had said to Anthea a few days prior.
“Yes,” she had answered without elaboration.
“And this is a party for adults,” Mycroft had said.
“Yes.” Her face had betrayed nothing.
“May I inquire as to what Sergeant Donovan did to convince you?”
“You may not.” They had peered at each other in silence. “I understand from Detective Inspector Lestrade that you will be in attendance,” Anthea had said after a moment, then had taken the files from his desk and left his office.
“It seems exceptionally childish,” Mycroft complained, at last looking up from his laptop with an aggrieved expression. “Or at least irredeemably American.”
“I think it sounds like a laugh. Now come on, darlin’. We’re getting dressed.”
“Can’t I go as a Department for Transport bureaucrat?” Mycroft asked sulkily as he followed Greg upstairs.
Greg paused and turned to kiss him. “Sure, love. If you want to admit to everyone at this party that that’s a costume and not actually what you are.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and followed Greg into their bedroom. “Don’t you still have that getup you wore to go pull Sherlock out of Serbia? Just wear that.”
“What are you wearing?” Mycroft sighed.
“I,” Greg said with a huge grin, “shall be going as the greatest detective of all time.” He paused dramatically and reached into a bag on the dresser, pulling out a bowler hat and fake mustache with a flourish. “Hercule Poirot!”
In the back of the car on the way to the party, Mycroft twirled his fur hat in his hands. “What if there was an international incident?” he asked.
“Nope!” Greg said with a smile. “Because the person who would help you fabricate such an incident is currently hosting what promises to be a lively and enjoyable party.”
“I hardly need help to start an international incident,” Mycroft replied huffily.
Greg wagged a finger at him. “You don’t need help to start one, but I suspect you need help to fake one. And I know you’re not so much of a coward that you would actually jeopardize foreign relations just to avoid a party.”
Mycroft sat back in his seat, muttering something about how it was hardly cowardly to be averse to wasting one’s time. Greg produced a flask from the inner pocket of his trench coat. “Here,” he said, handing it to Mycroft, “see if some scotch makes you less of a ninny about this.”
Mycroft took the flask, opened it, and took a swig. “Are you concerned that there will not be adequate provisions at the party?”
“Not at all,” Greg said as he accepted the flask back. “I just thought it would be easier to get you in the door if you had a few shots in you. And I didn’t want to start drinking at our house since that would have made it easier for you to convince me to stay there.”
Mycroft took another sip from the flask and moved closer to Greg. “Hm, I have convinced you to do some rather incredible things while intoxicated.”
They were still kissing when the car stopped in front of Sally and Anthea’s house. Mycroft sat back to observe Greg. “Oh dear,” he purred, “your mustache is askew. You can’t possibly go in like that. We’ll have to go home so you can fix it.”
“Nuh uh.” Greg handed the flask to Mycroft then pulled out his mobile and turned the camera on himself, pushing the black curled mustache back into its proper position on his lip. “Come on, Holmes,” he said, getting out of the car.
The door to the flat was opened by a woman in a light blue button-down shirt that was tied under her ample bosom to reveal a toned stomach and a miniscule pleated navy blue skirt. She wore a police bowler hat and thigh-high pleather boots with handcuffs tucked into the waist of the skirt. It took Mycroft and Greg several seconds to realize that the woman was Anthea.
“Anthea, you look fantastic!” Greg gasped, going in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, Monsieur Poirot,” Anthea smiled warmly. “And thank you for getting this one to come along.” She inclined her head in Mycroft’s direction.
“My pleasure,” Greg replied. “Where’s Sal?”
“Try the kitchen,” Anthea told him, “I think she’s taking nibbles out of the oven.”
Greg kissed her cheek again, and went off. Anthea turned to Mycroft and crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a challenging stare. One corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “You really are stunning, my dear,” he said. “And I am not nearly drunk enough for this.”
“Thank you,” she replied, her posture relaxing. “I’m glad to see that coat’s getting some more use.”
“It is a rather fine garment,” Mycroft said, looking down at himself. “Gregory suggested it. Did your wife have a similar influence on your costume?”
“No,” Anthea smiled at where Sally was emerging from the kitchen carrying a tray of finger food. She was dressed as a fairy in a gauzy green dress, flower crown, and impressive gossamer wings. “Sally bought those wings at a flea market months ago and has been looking for a reason to wear them ever since.” She gave Sally a little wave and Sally nearly walked into someone while grinning at Anthea. “My wife is, of course, quite fond of my costume and when I’m ready, I shall undo another button on my blouse which will lead to her finding an excuse to send everyone else home.”
Mycroft gave a clinical glance down at Anthea’s cleavage, and nodded. “Can I entice you to loose the button now?”
“No,” Anthea smiled, “but I would be more than happy to get you drunk enough for the experience.” She offered her arm. “Come on then.”
With a sigh, Mycroft allowed himself to be led into the party.